


Sigun Tyr, Ul Tyr

by jukain



Series: high towers [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amaurotine Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Angst, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hallucinations, Humor, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Loss of Limbs, Major Character Injury, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of Haurchefant, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Spoilers, Unrequited Love, Viera Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2020-07-12 12:07:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 48
Words: 39,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19945897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jukain/pseuds/jukain
Summary: she's the warrior of light, warrior of darkness, mammeteer extraordinaire, and possibly also a dragon. a lot has happened in the last several years.shadowbringers oneshot archive cross-posted from my tumblr. subjects and genres will vary but spoilers are certain.





	1. (in)complete

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gen

**“for those we have lost,”** she mourns from deep within ~~her~~ your chest, ~~her~~ your grief and love, impossibly vast and echoing the forgotten songs of a time beyond time, surging you onward. 

heretical Light shrieks in your grasp.

 _“and for those we can yet save,”_ he rallies, the hands of loved and lost at ~~his~~ your back, as they always have been and always will, to keep ~~him~~ you steady with every determined step in your advance.

the axe blazes in your grip and against the suffocating darkness you **sc** _re_ am, hurling your every fragment full force.


	2. rabbit chases the cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gen, humor

she is a terror. a _menace_.

g’raha stares at her and she stares back. both are stock still in their respective, opposing positions in the current idiotic standoff occupying their precious researching time (not that g’raha’s _bitter_ , or _frustrated_ mind you). he stands low in a half-crouch, legs tense and the tip of his tail twitching from side to side in anticipation. his eyes flick over to the tome in her grasp, _his_ tome twelve damn this woman, dangled precariously over the rough crystalline ledge of silvertear, threatening a thorough swim in the aether-rich lake.

were she any less known to him, g’raha would have debated the merits of risking a full frontal assault on the realm’s famous, _beloved_ warrior of light. she was quicker than she had every right to be, but so was he. he thinks he could take her down, at least the once. they would both end up in the lake, more than likely, but he was perfectly willing to make a sacrifice of his clothes and also her in exchange for the safety of his book.

however, he need not consider any of that, because he _knows_ her. despite her mischievous streak and tendency for mild to moderate amounts of chaos involving anyone within a fair range, she is not cruel. she did not commit acts that would leave lasting damage, lasting hurt. he knows his tome will not be so much as _scratched_ by the end of the day, as her antics were all merely a game. g’raha _knows_ games.

and ultimately, that’s really on him, g’raha thinks. he started this pseudo-feud to begin with, lacking a single onze of insight into just how far of ridiculous lengths the warrior would go to match and surpass whatever he tossed in her direction. he underestimated her cleverness and adaptability, and the timely retaliation he then received so boldly was _scathing_. 

… he kept a cautious berth around her, by this point.

“quit messing around, you two! you can bicker like children when we aren’t so damned busy!” cid calls from camp. all four ears swivel in the direction of his voice, but neither legendary warrior nor esteemed archon so much as flinch.

“you heard him,” g’raha says lowly, “time to give up the antics. a truce?”

she grins crookedly at him, delightfully. “since when have i ever listened to voices of reason?”

and that, he supposes, is fair.

quick as a flash, she bounds back down the path and passes g’raha with such uncanny swiftness that he’s left nearly spinning in place when he attempts to follow her movements. the tome is hugged securely to her chest as she bounces cheerfully back to the NOAH camp.

g’raha casts her a scrutinizing look, his ears tilting back, before sighing out a breath and trailing after her at a much more depressing speed. exploration of the tower aside, merely interacting with this woman on a regular basis was going to gray his hair at an astonishing rate. such is the price of progress. of tempting fate.

he finds the tome in his tent that night, leaning against his bag, and none worse for wear.

(it would be a very, very long time before he would find the pressed wildflower slipped between its pages, preserved within the text and untouched for hundreds of years. his hand trembles when he catches it from falling to the ground, and with a shaky exhale he gently returns it to where she had left it, closing the book and holding it close.)


	3. upkeep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fluff, light angst

“it’s not good for your hair to keep it tied up all the time,” she says, making a mild noise of displeasure while running her pointed nails through g’raha’s much neglected braid. “you should let it down more.”

his ears tip back towards her in embarrassment and she politely pretends to not notice the blush staining the back of his neck, under her hands.

“it hasn’t been much of a priority,” g’raha admits, doing his best to sit still in front of her even when she painfully picks at a tangle, the foreign sensation causing an uncomfortable prickle up his spine. “for a while i had simply cut most of it off, but with it still growing as it is despite my age, i decided it wasn’t worth the fuss.”

she hums thoughtfully and smooths her claws through the strands, satisfied with her administrations. the dual-color of his hair fascinates her in a way she can’t quite place; a visible display of his age even while the rest of him still appears handsome and youthful as she remembers.

“well, as someone whose kind considers a hundred years only just breaching adulthood, i wouldn’t mind assisting you in these endeavors for healthy hair care. it’s been a part of my regular schedule for decades, you know.” she gathers the locks and tucks them around his neck, over his shoulder, a little too pleased with herself at the parallel to the way she keeps her own hair.

she can very nearly _feel_ g’raha’s awkward reluctance at the idea of her pampering in the way he immediately stiffens, looking down ever so slightly.

“you need not concern yourself with such matters,” he says quietly. “i imagine your energy is better spent elsewhere, not on something so frivolous.” she says nothing to that right away, only watching the back of his head and weighing her outstanding options to spoil the man while he attempts to tear himself down.

she settles for dragging her fingers across the sides of his head, catching around his ears and minutely digging in her clawtips at their base. he responds with a full body shudder and unrestrained sigh, to which she claims as a victory and just reward.

“you’re an idiot,” she tells him fondly as she massages around his ears. they strain upward, twitching as she works. “i can do whatever i like, and there is _always_ importance in taking care of oneself. your happiness and health are important, and it brings me great joy to be able to shove that in your face at every opportunity.”

she can hear a shaky sigh escaping g’raha. part of her hopes he isn’t crying again, since she’s not very good with people crying, but if that’s what it takes for him to feel better and care for himself then she would learn to handle it.

“i… thank you.” he murmurs after several beats. “i know not what i’ve done to deserve your kindness, but i will cherish it nevertheless.”

“we’ll work on that too,” she adds quickly, making a face. “you’re incredible, the right _bastard_ you are, and i’m positive everyone here would offer you up the world on a platter were we able.” she leans forward, dropping her hands to her lap, and presses her forehead against the base of his head. “i learned to see myself how you saw me, so now it’s your turn to change perspectives. see how loved you are, and all that.”

g’raha releases a watery laugh so genuine and warm that it causes a tightness in her chest. she holds onto that feeling greedily.

“i’ll do my best,” he says, which is good enough for her.


	4. regards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> angst, hurt barely any comfort

it takes her a full day, right up until the sun had fully disappeared behind the horizon, to return to the ocular in an uncharacteristic silence. when she corners g’raha, her steps heavy and filled with intent, he muses internally about how he had been waiting for the other shoe to drop, to put it mildly, and for the warrior’s patience with him to at last run dry. 

he had been waiting since the final confrontation with emet-selch, deep within the ruins of an impossibly ancient city, for this very moment. back when the warrior smiled at him, tiredly but still so warmly as only she could, all while bearing the brunt of countless injuries, and with what was likely her own blood flecked across her face and clothes. she had bid him good morning, and the openness of her expression and the sound of his name in her voice succeeded in breaking the last threads restraining him as the exarch.

g’raha latches onto the memory as selfishly as he can, even while the woman in question steps directly into his space, her posture tense with what he assumes is anger. she has plenty to be angry with him for-- for his constant lies and deceit and stringing her along into his manipulations, even going so far as to coerce the scion urianger into participation, if only to save her life. save their worlds. 

why she did not immediately lash out during any of their homecoming, and thereafter, was beyond g’raha’s ken. if he were to guess, however, it was to keep the confrontation as private as she could manage. though she was proactive and aggressive with every act she made, she was nevertheless courteous enough to keep her fury behind closed doors, and away from those who would have reason to judge her for it.

she shudders out a breath and g’raha feels rather than sees her claws twist into his robes, where they grip the fabric mercilessly. he watches her quietly, though the terrified racing of his heart he thinks is loud enough to be heard by such sensitive ears.

she towers over him with her full height, and he has no doubt that with her strength, she would be able to effortlessly haul him bodily into the air, should she so choose. he is unafraid of this. it wouldn’t be entirely unexpected of a reaction from her, though certainly unfavorable for him.

seconds tick by one after another as the warrior doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t make any inclination to do anything but hold g’raha there. he feels concern leak into his chest at her hesitation, though over what he is unsure. had she not always been an explosive personality, leaping before thinking, never pausing to second-guess herself or allow room for doubt? her rage is justified and his own guilt is certain. whatever she deems fit as her retaliation for his sins, g’raha will wholeheartedly accept.

“you’re _such a bastard_.” 

g’raha’s attention snaps back into focus, and when he sees tears streaking down her cheeks, his world comes to a very abrupt halt. her lips pull back, eyebrows pinching, and she coughs out a sob. then another. he can only stare at her with widening eyes as she falls apart before him, a visible tremble starting in her hands, both still clinging to him, and traveling up to her shoulders. she draws them up tightly and weeps and shakes him a little, very weakly.

“you’re such–! you’re horrible. you’re _horrible_ , g’raha. you’re so stupid, your plan was stupid, _everything_ was–!” she wails, her voice echoing throughout the room. “you would just go and die, and kill yourself, and,” she inhales sharply, “and i’m so, _so godsdamned angry_ you would even– even _think_ that would be alright! that i would j-just be able to _take it_! that _anyone here_ would take it! yet _another_ person dying for me, again! _again_!”

she looks up and meets his gaze then, and her expression of utter despair and heartbreak nearly ends him on the spot, much belatedly. his mouth falls wordlessly open, heat prickling in his eyes.

“didn’t you learn a _single sodding thing_ in all those stories you read?! how much i’ve lost, how many i’ve seen die, i’ve _killed_ , and for– for _what_ –?!” she shakes him again a little harder, but not enough to budge him. “you were going to die, going to leave _everyone here_ , and you didn’t even– you didn’t–”

g’raha reaches out to her before he even notices himself move, his crystal hand settling on her wrist and squeezing gently. she rapidly shakes her head but does nothing to try to dislodge him.

“you know what?! i’m _glad_ emet-selch shot you. i’m _glad_ he took you down right there, before you could piss off and _die_ like that!” he winces at her words, suppressing the memory of light fracturing his insides and the numbing pain of a shot to the back. 

“you didn’t… you didn’t _trust me_ ,” she croaks, her cries softening. “you didn’t give me a chance to help you, or figure out a better solution. you…” the grip on his robes loosens significantly. “you never _actually_ talked to me.”

her arms fall back to her sides and she takes a wary step back. g’raha is left with his hand awkwardly hovering, as if he were debating whether or not to reach out to her. 

his warrior appears so hopeless and dejected and _hurt_ , and this was the _last_ thing he had ever wanted to do to her. he would have taken her wrath, her hatred, over this gaping wound he’s inflicted with his choices. all those years locked away in the tower spent methodically planning, and he had never entertained the idea that he would be left alive in the aftermath, to see the fallout of his scheme a hundred years in the making.

but, even still… he lives now.

“i am sorry,” g’raha speaks through deafening silence. “i am so sorry.”

the warrior blinks rapidly as fresh tears begin to form in her eyes, and she sniffs. refuses to meet his gaze.

“you _should_ be sorry,” she retorts with no bite. “and if have to remind you about that every day that i’m here, i will, because i’m not letting you pull another stunt like this ever again. do you hear me, g’raha tia? never again. i will _not_ let you go again, not ever.”

with this declaration, g’raha is left stricken and lost in the torrent of emotion building in his chest. this time, it’s he who begins to weep, and his warrior stands and watches and waits.


	5. quietus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gen

“the power that a dark knight possesses is born from her pain.”

one after another the rogue automations before her are reduced to unrecognizable, twisted metal. shrapnel explodes and scatters across the walkway with every heavy sweep of her blade, her steps calculated and defensive. timing her breathing to be in tandem with her movements, she inhales deeply, the acrid taste of metal and aether sticking to the roof of her mouth.

“her rage, her despair. to partake in the depths of the abyss but not be consumed by it. to be free of her shackles and to fight, her suffering reforged into that which will protect her, and in turn allow her to protect others.”

like the most intimate and macabre of musics, is the steady rhythm of her heart. she listens and moves in a violent dance of both magic and steel, leaping effortlessly from one target to the next. her weapon sinks through layers of metal with ease and gouges into the floor below from the sheer force of the strike.

it’s there that she pauses for a brief rest, settling down onto one knee. she holds onto the hilt of her sword with both hands, more as a comfort than necessary support, and allows her eyes to slip shut.

“she will forsake law and moral alike in her pursuit of justice. she will be as cruel and merciless as she need be. she will not engage in falsehoods and will not proclaim to be anything she is not. neither hero, nor savior.”

she wonders if he can hear her. she knows he _sees_ her, that he’s currently watching her foray into the unknown chaos of the tower. there’s a prickling awareness in the back of her mind that she doesn’t remember possessing, at the very least outside of her echo’s effects during combat. just as clearly as she knows where her enemy will attempt to attack her next, she knows there are eyes on her. 

perhaps it would be better to be heard as well, in this case. she doubts she'd have the fortitude to speak these thoughts to him directly, after what had only recently occurred between them. the idea of his expression twisting into desperation and grief, in the most unwanted gesture of sympathy for her, makes her feel vaguely nauseous.

“because when she acts, it is not for king, nor country. it is not for personal gain, not for the benefit of the people.”

she rises and pulls her blade free. hangs it to her back and glances over her shoulder, to where the next access point lies. above the sealed doors remains the smooth print of an ironworks logo, so easily recognizable, from a time and place that no longer exist. she has already seen countless like it in the duration of her time there, and is ready to follow them like breadcrumbs through to the end.

she breathes. listens to her heartbeat.

“she acts, she fights, out of love. it is love that drives her to the abyss, and love that allows her to wield it. through that pain, that anger, she continues to walk forward on an endless path for the sake of those she will dedicate her life to. who she _chooses_ to dedicate her life to.”

something shifts in the distance. the subsequent ringing of her echo is a sensation both abstract and uncanny even still, after all these years, and with it comes a wave of relief and familiar bloom of warmth in her chest. 

so, he _is_ listening. she smiles a little.

“and in your darkest hour, in the blackest night...”


	6. fracture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: depiction of severe mental health issues, trauma
> 
> angst, h/c

she emerges one night from the portal to the source, wholly unexpectedly from g’raha’s every timely estimation, and with far too little fanfare than she had exhibited previously. she was fond of announcing her visits with as much enthusiasm as she was capable, never minding the fact that she had only left that morning and had been gone for some odd hours. she was wont for the dramatic, not that g’raha would ever complain about the eccentricities she was well-known (and adored) for.

in a tense silence, her posture stiff and unnatural, she comes to a slow stop not far from the glimmering surface of the portal. her inky black and purple armor is splattered generously with old and drying blood, the sword secured to her back faring just about as well. after a moment’s pause, she wobbles in place.

there is no shortage of concern, panic, on g'raha's end when what he sees finally registers. he's there at her side in an instant, magic readied at his fingertips and a dozen questions already firing out one after another in rapid succession. he quickly looks over the metal plating covering her frame and into the gaps in between that expose her skin, seeking injuries. there are none. 

he double checks, though a little slower. his worry for her physical well-being is snuffed out, for the most part, but a heady confusion rises in its place and traces his features. all the while, the warrior has said nothing, nor has she moved an ilm from that single spot.

she says nothing to g’raha, and doesn’t so much as acknowledge his presence. all she does is gaze blankly ahead, her face utterly void of emotion. a sick unease lurches in the exarch’s chest and he clenches his jaw shut, any other possible inquiries dying in his throat. no longer a boy dreaming of possibilities far beyond him, who did not truly understand the horrors of war that he was only ever able to read about, g’raha can now recognize the hazy look in her eyes. the way she seems to be both looking into the far distance, and also staring into nothing.

"my friend," he tries anyway, in a gentle voice. he does not try to touch her and takes a measured step backwards and out of her way, still intentionally positioned within arm’s reach. he is not surprised when she doesn’t respond, though her eyelids seem to twitch, as does the corner of her lips.

g’raha swallows hard in a vain attempt to smother his anxiety before attempting to find his words, scouring through his attained knowledge for anything that may be of use. her arm flinches and the soft sound of the armored plates sliding draws his attention, both ears upright and alert.

her arm snaps upward, and g’raha only has time to startle at the sudden movement before he sees her hand freeze mid-way through its path to the hilt of her blade. she inhales sharply, her fingers clenching into a fist, and blinks rapidly. looks down at him with an expression so perfectly schooled and neutral and not in any way like the open joy she had always greeted him with-- and he feels his heart breaking.

“you’re in the ocular, on the first,” he tells her softly, the ache in his chest easing as she returns to awareness in slow steps. her arm falls near limply back to her side, armor clacking loudly together. she begins to breathe heavily, her shoulders trembling from the effort, and glances behind herself at the portal, then over at the sealed doors across the room. “you came in not too long ago. are you... is there anything i can help you with?” he adds when she returns her attention to him, her eyes much clearer.

“i... i’m sorry,” she says weakly, exposing her teeth in a rueful grin, “this is really embarrassing. i’m not entirely sure how i got here.” there’s no humor in the following chuckle. she looks as though she’s about to cry.

“i can only guess as to what lead you here, but...” he trails off, daring to move closer to her as she continues to wilt, unable to meet his eyes. “you are here now, and i must ask that you rest and recover, and allow me the courtesy to assist you however i am able.” he presses his crystalline hand against her chest plate, as if he would be able to support her weight with the gesture alone.

the warrior purses her lips, struggling to keep her composure as tears begin to streak through the blood and grime on her cheeks. she nods then, and g’raha smiles kindly, though she still won’t look at him.

“i’m sorry,” she murmurs, her voice cracking, as g’raha leads her out of the ocular. “i couldn’t... i’m sorry, i’m _sorry_ \--” 

there would be few out near the dossal gate at this time, even with the novelty of the night still keeping the crystarium otherwise lively with excitement. the standard guards on their rotation would be respectful enough to not pry, to not allow their stares to linger on neither the exarch nor warrior of darkness for any longer than was necessary. a small blessing he is eternally grateful for.

in the safety of a private room nestled within the spagyrics, she lies curled up in bed without blankets, weeping openly, and begging for forgiveness while clutching onto g’raha’s hand as though she would be lost without. stroking his thumb over her knuckles, and through her death grip, all he can do for her is listen to her cries and offer silent support. he awaits the day where he will be able to wipe away her tears, himself, though he knows full well it may never come.

as much as he wishes it were otherwise, g’raha has no words to give her in the face of these demons, these wounds that have never had the chance to heal. he hopes his presence will be enough to provide what comfort she needs in such a fragile state, as she mourns for what he can only imagine from written word.

he squeezes his eyes shut, feeling as though his chest may cave in at any moment by the sound of his beloved’s anguished wails. he tries not to think about where she would have gone, what she would have done, had she not unconsciously sought him out. he knows the answer, found in that split second when she had instinctively reached for her weapon, and he can’t bear it.


	7. mammeteer best title

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> humor

“i call it the bastard radius,” she says cheerfully while adjusting the tiny clothing on her mammet-replica-self. the automation peers up at her silently, cloth ears twitching.

“the–” g'raha doesn’t finish, giving her a peculiar look. he was still quite confused about the presence of the toy to begin with, much less the work put into it. the esteemed hero continues to… astound everyone in very much unexpected ways.

“i attuned her little heart with aether from the crystal tower. it wasn’t overly hard, just fiddled with some components i found while i was exploring in there the last time. and it didn’t take a great deal of time and energy for the systems to work, thankfully.” satisfied at the mini-warrior’s appearance, she pats it affectionately on the head, smooshing its tiny crafted viera ears down.

“anyway, i programmed her to have special behaviors depending on the distance she is from the tower.” she continues, ushering the toy back out towards the markets with a poke to its back. it looks at her, then g'raha (who remains utterly speechless), before scrambling off at breakneck speeds as though with a goal in mind.

“special behaviors,” g'raha repeats flatly as he watches the adorable mammet version of his warrior pull several gazes on its path and startle a wandering pedestrian.

she beams at him with such happiness and pride that g'raha nearly forgets the state of the area surrounding the dossal gate when he had come across the minion: panicked onlookers and excited children and at least one guard with his weapon drawn _,_ over a single toy. he _nearly_ forgets _._

“she’s programmed to be more and more of a reckless little terror the farther in distance she is from the crystal tower.” the warrior says simply, smiling into the distant crystarium.

“i am too old for this,” g'raha mutters so very quietly, but she hears him regardless and busts up laughing.


	8. living shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> au where the wol gets soulnapped and fray/esteem is left behind
> 
> gen

“relate me to an ascian once more and i’ll prevent you from ever speaking another word so long as you live,” they snarl at thancred, who glares evenly back at them, and the warrior’s face they are currently wearing. 

not that he’d call it that since the last time he did, going so far as to say they _possessed_ her, they socked him in the gut with zero hesitation and a fair amount of the warrior’s strength to boot. there was… significant bruising, still.

“how else am i supposed to explain this… _thing_ , that’s happening?” he asks with a stiff gesture at them, clad in plate armor of deep purples and black that he’d only seen a scarce amount of times during their adventure on the first. if he were to be honest, he would admit that it didn’t suit the conjurer he had gotten to know over time. the friend who had shared countless pains with both he and the rest of the scions.

that said, the warrior was wont to change and adapt her fighting style depending on the situation at hand, especially as she grew more experienced and powerful in ways thancred had difficulty quantifying. this “esteem“ character, on the other hand, stuck to the dark knight crystal with fierce certainty, the massive blade at their back serving as a perfect extension of themselves. they refused to wield anything but.

esteem breathes in deeply, their eyebrows pinching together in visible frustration, and exhales an aggravated sigh.

“i _am_ her, but i am also not. we are one individual, but parallel sides like that of a coin.” they adjust their gauntlet straps, flexing their fingers to test the fit. “i was born of her heart and her aether, and am the shadow she casts who exists to safeguard our selfish desires that she, ever the altruist, won’t act on. our desire to care for naught but ourselves and be free of hopeless obligation.”

thancred understandably, infuriatingly, doesn’t regard esteem with a lick of trust, but is momentarily appeased by the explanation for its honesty more than its context. he crosses his arms over his chest and leans back into a stone wall.

“for all your claims that you’re the same, or close to, you’re nothing like her at all.” he says this as a casual fact, an absolute, and esteem cannot help but _laugh_ a terrible, bitter sound.

“you truly believe that, don’t you?” they ask, lips pulling back into a smile that bares their teeth. “that you and yours know more about your _precious hero_ than anyone? and why, because you’re _friends_? because you’ve lost together, _killed together_?” thancred’s eyes darken significantly but they press onward even as their expression twists from amusement to loathing. “you assume that she could not harbor anything less than unconditional understanding and compassion, that she would not find it in herself to _resent_ the scions, despise _the realm_ , for _all_ that you’ve put her through? all that you’ve wrought to _destroy her_ as a person?” 

esteem shakes their head, turning away from him in a clear disengagement before he has the chance to respond. “you know _nothing_ ,” they snap with finality, eyes firmly ahead. “of the burdens she bears or the damage done to that brittle heart of hers. and if i am to be in control of us, i will not allow _any_ of these empty sentiments to get in my way of saving her.”

“… that sounds an awful like a threat.” thancred’s voice is a low rumble, and esteem can nearly feel his rage in the form of blade held to their back. it’s of no matter.

“if you care as much as you think you do for your _weapon of light_ , then it’s no threat at all.”

esteem is engulfed in a burst of aether as they teleport away. thancred stands there for several beats longer, gritting his teeth and hissing out a swear.


	9. unreliable narrator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WHOOP finally using her name
> 
> gen

“so!” alisaie exclaims as she rounds the table the warrior sits at, slamming her hands onto its surface. “you and the exarch! what _is_ the story of that?”

tiamat looks past the girl and at alphinaud while she absentmindedly chews on a slice of sugar beet. he's only a pace or two away and has the audacity to not look remotely embarrassed by his sister’s outburst.

“the story of what?” she asks blandly through her teeth. “there’s a lot of stories to tell, you’ll have to be more specific.” alisaie gives her a moody look, not convinced by her feigned ignorance.

“how you met, obviously.” she explains quickly, rising to her full height and crossing her arms. “since i’ve come to understand you two are _more than familiar_ with one another, and the exarch’s utter devotion to you in the past year has been so earnest in its romanticism, ‘tis almost nauseating.” 

alphinaud clears his throat sharply and ah, _there’s_ the embarrassment. tiamat crunches on the bits of root vegetable she has been steadily working through and silently mourns her decision to pick it as a snack instead of something easier to eat.

“yes, well, to me it was different,” she says with a lazy wave of her hand. sensing the oncoming tale, both teenagers slide into separate seats with the synchronized precision only twins would ever be capable of. “it was just… for the most part, it wasn’t anything groundbreaking or ripe to burst with drama. it was something special, certainly, and an experience i’ll never forget, but just as well… it was…” she trails off, nervously drumming her claws into wood.

_she didn’t want to talk about this. there were many things she skirted around, many painful memories she wasn’t prepared to confront quite yet to make her peace, but this was one of its kind. back before her life had spiraled into death after death after death, and when there was always time for everything she did, when she had been naive and brash and didn’t bother to think before she jumped, because what of consequence?  
_

_had she not successfully took the fight to the empire, brought low the black wolf himself? had she not reached new heights none other were capable of? at that time, victory was a song blaring in her chest and she and had yet to truly understand the burden of the title that now sat heavy upon her shoulders. the notoriety and privilege so deeply rooted into her like thorny vines that she struggled to reconcile herself as whoever she was before it._

_her and g’raha’s parting had cracked open something within her, and spilled forth a torrent of rage and betrayal that swallowed her up whole and spat out something pitiful and ugly.  
_

_during that summer tiamat shared with the scholar, their closeness was a subject of much debate within the confines of the noah camp, members all of whom struggled to identify exactly what in every hell are they–? do they even like each other–?  
_

_maybe she could have finally raised the flag in defeat and admitted how much she cared for him as a person, beyond all the ribbing and teasing. maybe, with more time and some serious introspection, she would have even grown to love him. perhaps she would have done both, had she not so foolishly cast aside any honesty within her in favor of avoiding discomfort about her feelings.  
_

_tiamat was the warrior of light and could do anything, then. she had all the time in the world and then some to sort out her problems, to grow stronger and better for every trial she faced, and the world would always, and without fail, wait for her. then, when she was at last ready to depart for her next adventure, everyone and everything would be there at her side to accompany her.  
_

_and then her only friend abandoned her._

“…”

she knows she’s being too quiet and also knows the twins are beginning to grow concerned, but she doesn’t have an inkling of clue where to continue from these thoughts. how could she possibly explain the expedition in ways they would be able to understand, and what it meant to her truly, and where g’raha and now the exarch fit into all of it? in all actuality, none of them had the time to put the pieces of that tragedy back together enough to make any sense of it.

so, she does what she does best, and smiles at them with as much humor as she can muster.

“do you remember what i told you in ishgard, about the haughty archon i had met in mor dhona, and the trick i played on him with oranges?” tiamat asks to break the silence, glancing up at alphinaud.

his eyebrows furrow for a moment as he thinks back, but before long clear recognition lights up his eyes. alisaie’s confusion becomes apparent by her expression, and she quietly repeats “oranges?” to herself in a murmur.

“you and the– that was _him_?” alphinaud says in a disbelieving laugh, any trace of worry now smoothed over by open amusement. alisaie looks at her brother and then at tiamat with a demanding glare.

the warrior nods sagely. “to summarize: i had him convinced for a good while that i actually ate the peel. since it was summer and he liked oranges, i would bring some from time to time, and always made a show of saving the rind. he’d never seen a viera before in his life and was evidently too polite to question it, trying so hard as he was to be in my good books after the stunts he pulled. his pride took issue with me having fooled him over something so silly.”

she can see the gears turning in alisaie’s head as she tries to place the exarch in that ridiculous position, and her lips quirk up into a helpless grin. alphinaud chuckles into his hand in a vain attempt to keep quiet, and tiamat continues to smile as she fondly recollects that particular memory. the way g’raha had stared at her with a combination of disbelief and offense, his tail thrashing behind him as he attempted to restrain the emotion.

“went back to my tent and everything was flipped upside-down. he worked fast.”

she closes her eyes and listens to the sound of the twins’ giggles, the ache beneath her ribs subsiding for the moment as the kinder memories she held onto soothed the prickling anger that resided still, tucked away deeply in her heart.


	10. a matter of trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gen

“prithee... entertain mine inquiries for a moment, if thou wouldst be so generous,” urianger says to break the companionable silence between him and tiamat, who blinks up at him in mild surprise. 

there were few words to be had during their study sessions considering how deeply the warrior would pour into her selected book, running a fine comb through the texts to pick out every detail she could. urianger would know better than anyone, as it was he who taught tiamat to read in the first place, in what seemed like an eternity ago during their time at the waking sands. she was ever the impatient learner, but was far more clever than he had anticipated and picked up the skill quickly. it made sense, in hindsight.

she simply watches him and he takes the invitation to continue: “for all mine deceit, mine woven lies at thine expense, thou hast...” he trails off and tiamat cocks her head a little, ears pivoting towards him. “i have yet to receive of thee thine ire, though ‘tis sorely deserved.”

she looks a little annoyed, but huffs out an amused laugh and snaps her tome shut. resting her head in her hand, tiamat slouches forward and gives urianger a fond look from beneath her messy bangs.

“that’s what you don’t get, urianger,” she tells him, and he blinks rapidly with bewilderment at her casual, friendly response. “my trust in you is not mutually exclusive, and i don’t always expect whole truths out of you-- or anyone for that matter.”

his mouth falls uselessly open as he wracks his brain for a reply, but she quickly cuts in and continues before he has the chance to make a fool of himself.

“i have faith in you. just as much as i trust you to tell me the truth in honest, i trust you to know when and how to lie. i may be cross with you when that happens, but i know your heart is in the right place, and i will never hate you for it.”

urianger feels heat prickle in his eyes when she smiles at him. he swallows hard and looks away from her gentle gaze, this blessed warrior of light who has always been far too kind, far too compassionate for one such as he. what he has done to earn her comradery despite all he has done, he will never be able to comprehend. ... perhaps, there was nothing to it at all.

he hears her huff once more and glances back to see her wrinkle her nose in a sour, yet somehow humorous expression.

“think of it this way: i _love_ raha, but i do not trust him. this hasn’t changed since he was a boy, and he’s doing a _fantastic_ job of continuing that trend to my _great_ displeasure.”

a helpless laugh escapes urianger and she flashes a grin at him, and in it he sees her just as he did so many years prior. an overly-ambitious and crafty woman the scions had plucked from the ruined aftermath of the calamity, where not even they could have anticipated the resounding effect a single person would have on the realm at large. 

when the matter of an important missive arose, and tiamat had loudly and haughtily told the group, given such educated and worldly students they were, that she couldn’t read. she then proceeded to show up unannounced at urianger’s private quarters that same night with a much quieter, embarrassed favor to ask.

“thou art more wise than thine reputation proceeds,” urianger offers at last, a soft smile present on his features and a massive weight gone from his shoulders.

“i’m a gift,” she agrees with a nod, and snatches the tome from his hands to pick up where he left off.


	11. falling snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> light angst, h/c

when he finds her miraculously present in his study without a single notice in regards to her visiting the first, g’raha has several light-hearted inquiries at the forefront of his mind. they quickly wither and die unsaid in his throat, however, at the bittersweet expression he catches her making while she stares down at the book in her lap. _heavensward_ , he would recognize anywhere in its well-worn, well-loved state. her thumb traces over the dragon heraldry with something tender and near reverent, and despite tiamat being the one to show up in _his_ home unannounced (though never unwelcome), g’raha second guesses himself on if he should bear witness to such a poignant scene.

“i don’t think i’ll ever be able to read this,” the warrior says quietly. both of his ears shift upright in her direction. “maybe some time from now i’ll have the heart to see what edmont wrote, but now, even years later– i… i don’t think i’m prepared to read it. i didn’t even know he was archiving that mess, actually.”

g’raha makes his way into the room, his attention focused primarily on the viera. she sits hunched over in the single, lonely desk chair, both her ears tilted back and overall appearing so heartbreakingly despondent and _small_. it wasn’t often tiamat sank into such a dour mood, but each time she did was no less fraught with pain than the last. the sliding scale of her emotions were to mutual extremes, and g’raha could say with certainty that she struggled to find a safe middle ground between them to properly cope with the conflict within both her heart and mind. she needed time to work through them all, though he was well aware that she could not afford such luxury with her ever-mounting responsibilities.

“it was a memoir beloved by countless, passed from one generation to the next,” g’raha says to her kindly, and is pleased to see a hesitant smile quirk at her lips. “i daresay it may have also been my personal favorite of your tales, as it were.”

he fears this may be the wrong thing to say when tension quickly builds in her shoulders, and her hands find careful grip on the sides of the tome. ever respectful of his possessions, her claws courteously avoid digging into the weathered, hard cover.

“i can only imagine how incredible it must have all been to read about that long after the fact. the dragonsong war was a definite spectacle, all those hundreds of years in the making with its endless, frankly _idiotic_ war. and all the dragons. truthfully, i was just the sorry sap who was dragged into it by chance, after everything that happened in ul’dah.” tiamat doesn’t meet his gaze while she speaks, but he understands her reluctance to do so by now. never was there a view into a soul quite like hers, through her cherry-red eyes, and she was well aware of it and guarded that weakness adamantly.

“you arrived in their hour of need, and helped their people and _beyond_ despite every prejudice they flung your way. despite every reason they gave you to not want to act on their behalf.” g’raha tries to keep himself from rambling about her exploits, but after an actual hundred years of doing nothing but, it remains a hard habit to break. “you are certainly the hero of ishgard.”

no, _this_ was the wrong thing to say, he realizes too late when she snaps up to her feet so suddenly the chair rattles behind her. intensity twists the previous calmness of her expression, her brows set and eyes blazing. she handles the tome stiffly, at an impasse with her desire to clutch onto it with a strength far too great for its worn state. she restrains herself from giving into the temptation, though her fingers visibly flinch.

“no. no, i am not their _hero_. i was their weapon, their trump card, maybe even their _savior_ , but i am _not_ their–” her voice is harsh. “would you like to know who the _real_ hero of the dragonsong war was? the bastard knight with a heart too big for his chest, who loved everyone and loved everything and loved _me_ , and who _was the reason any of it was possible in the first place_.”

she locks gazes with g’raha then, and his breath stutters, his jaw falling slack. the ferocity in her eyes is an unrelenting torrent he’s consumed by, helpless to do naught but drown in the depths of her violent grief and anger.

and yet still when confronted by the image of his warrior’s trauma, g’raha manages to utter “ _lord haurchefant_.” the edges of her posture soften almost immediately at the sound of his name, her fury rapidly cooling, and she nods curtly.

“a man too good for this shite world that only ever gave him equal amounts of it in turn. i doubt the stories describe the lengths he went just because he cared about me, when it only caused him trouble for all his efforts. how it was _he_ who fought to grant me, grant _us_ , asylum in ishgard when everyone in the alliance refused. it was _he_ who was the instigator for the war’s end, and he who ushered me there to make it happen. he lit that beacon of hope and ran with it and i followed after him.”

she drops back into the chair with an audible _thump_ , and resumes staring at the memoir with visible frustration written across her face. g’raha swallows nervously and takes slow steps to stand at her side, leaning partially against the wall between haphazard piles of books.

“i loved him,” tiamat says in such a bold proclamation that it nearly staggers him, leaving him sucking in a sharp breath and uncertain what to feel. “i would have brought _the whole city_ to the brink of destruction if only to… to save him. i really couldn’t have no matter how hard i tried, but i didn’t know that until later, when– when i fought the heaven’s ward. neither of us would have survived that attack, and i understand that now, even if it barely helps the guilt.”

at no point does it occur to g’raha that he is hearing a firsthand account of one of the warrior of light’s greatest achievements in known history. any thrill his inner historian may have held in the past is well and thoroughly trounced by his overwhelming concern for her well-being, recounting such a devastating trauma as she is.

“‘life for death. i will have ser zephirin’s heart for what he did to haurchefant.’” she says lowly in a broken exhale. “that is what i told them, and i meant every word. i even _followed through with it_ in the end, but i know for a fact that detail remains unknown to all but me, and edmont would have surely been upset had he known how driven i was to get revenge for his son.”

 _he wouldn’t have been_ , g’raha wants so badly to tell her but can’t, not in this delicate moment. _he considered you his family, never stopped worrying for your safety in any of his letters to the speaker and to the scions, and he would have wanted you to share the burden of your pain with those who could understand better than anyone. the fortemps loved you–_ love _you– so, so much._

“i cut them down one by one, and when i finally _gutted_ whatever creature zephirin had become upon my blade, there was only aether left within his body.” tiamat laughs bitterly through her pointed teeth and tilts her head back, her throat bobbling in a swallow. “he no longer even had a heart for me to take, and disintegrated on the spot just like every other primal i’ve ever slain. i was left with nothing but the confirmation of their deaths by my hands, and it only made me feel _worse_.” her sentence breaks as her voice does and she hisses out a terrible, grieving noise, her throat catching.

g’raha’s hand finds her shoulder and squeezes gently. the warrior ducks her head back down even further, chin nearly to her collarbone, and she sobs and clutches _heavensward_ tightly to her chest.

“vengeance didn’t do me any good, s-so i guess i just have to be a big _godsdamned_ hero like he wanted me to be, huh?” she weeps at a volume that’s nearly a shout and shakes her head. “i won’t allow anything he did for me and every bit of faith he had in me to be for nothing, even if i have to flip every world out there onto its head– every _sodding_ shard!”

a shaking hand lifts from the tome and finds his. g’raha intertwines their fingers to anchor her with a firm hold, even as her claws hook into his spoken flesh.

“you better be watching me from wherever halone took you, haurchefant, because _i swear to every god i do and don’t believe in_ that i’ll make you so proud of me you’ll _cry_ all over her halls! i’ll make her _jealous_!”

despite failing to withhold his own tears as was usual, g’raha can’t stop a warm bark of laughter from escaping him. tiamat looks up at him, her face blotchy and messy and her smile wobbly, but her eyes are impossibly clear and bright.


	12. moments of no import

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bite-sized
> 
> gen

“i’ve always hated the sound bows and arrows make.”

of all the spontaneous confessions to hear from her, and despite g’raha becoming more or less used to such things shaping into his new normal, this would be a definite outlier.

“really?”

she sits slouched against a pile of tomes, knees brought up to her chest, and the side of her head resting awkwardly against a book which tilts precariously forward from the added weight.

“i think i might have been an archer. before the calamity, i mean. whenever i hear the string i feel sick and scared and i don’t know why.”

g’raha considers her quiet words, pulling his gaze from where the warrior sits and bringing it to his crystallized hand. he hadn’t let loose a single arrow in the great expanse of time he had spent within the tower and the first, and he doubts he would be strong enough to do so again.

—

she burns while casting ancient, ruined magics in the dreadwyrm trance, burns while succumbing to the blood of the dragon as she leaps from one target to the next.

the question is always there for alphinaud, right at the tip of his tongue, but he remains perpetually unsure if he truly wants to know the answer. estinien had not been the only one to be chosen, influenced, by nidhogg‘s eye.

her control is trained and fluid in either case, and her combat arts have never raised an issue, and so he keeps his thoughts to himself. sometimes her aether feels cold and sharp, boiling and devastating, and not like her own. it always goes back to normal when the fight is over.

her skull-inspired helm keeps her eyes hidden, but he sees her _snarl,_ and the flash of pointed teeth and rumbling noise in her throat reminds alphinaud too much of their confrontation at the steps of faith. surely, she would have all the reason in the world to shatter under the weight of her vengeful heart, to become consumed by it and twisted into something monstrous.

he says nothing of it, fear simmering quietly.

—

“i remember more of my father than my mother, which is weird, since he’s been dead for decades. my mother’s viera like me but i can’t recall her face.” tiamat chews absentmindedly on her thumbnail.

alisaie gives her a baffled look, brow raised, and sets her glass back on the table. “me being shocked by your estimated age notwithstanding, i wasn’t aware you’re… half viera, then?”

“mmhm,” the warrior confirms in a light hum, and makes a small show of poking one of her fangs with her tongue. “my father was a keeper. assuming my memories aren’t that messed up, i look a lot like him. i must have outlived him by nearly a century since miqo’te have notoriously short lifespans.”

there’s nothing suggesting any further discussion in tiamat’s relaxed features, so alisaie leaves the matter be and takes a drink of her now lukewarm lemonade.


	13. prices paid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw for mentions of major injury, amputation
> 
> h/c

“does it hurt?” g’raha asks her with no shortage of hesitance. he had not-so gracefully avoided the subject of her prosthetic after the initial shock of the thing, as well as the glamour, had worn off (naturally, tiamat muses, none of the stories talked about its existence).

“oh yes, quite a lot,” she responds and rolls the metal fingers into a loose fist in demonstration. “but not much more than i’m already used to. i’m no stranger to injury, slaying primals and saving worlds and all.” he winces in sympathy, his ears folding back.

“don’t you _dare_ try to apologize for decisions _i_ made,” tiamat snaps the second his mouth opens. he nearly jumps right out of his robes at the sharpness of her voice, his tail fluffed up like a spooked coeurl. “this was my idea and i’m the one who coerced ironworks into doing it. or, well, harassed nero enough that we forged a secret pact to not tell cid what we were doing until after the fact. i still don’t think he’s forgiven me for that, honestly…” 

she looks away with a mildly pained expression as she remembers the confrontation between the three of them. cid had only drilled into nero, assuming without a shred of doubt or as much of a glance in her direction that it was only _he_ to orchestrate their plan. that he’d somehow roped her into a vile experimentation for his entertainment and benefit. 

she had the unwanted pleasure of telling her faithful, genius friend who saved her and her friends’ lives on multiple occasions that it was all her own idea, including both the operation as well as intentionally keeping cid in the dark about it. the hurt disbelief crossing his face still kept her up some nights, and she hates herself a little for the ordeal.

g’raha’s smile is bittersweet when tiamat returns her attention to him.

“there were… certain tomestones possessing information of rather bizarre mechanisms wholly unrelated to the tower.” he tells her, and she briefly wonders what sort of memories are being tossed about in that strange head of his. “complicated aetheric transfer systems on such an astoundingly small scale, built into equally small and dense apparatus. no one had the slightest idea of what they had been for, but nevertheless they were protected alongside all of ironworks’ archives. only now does it occur to me that they had not belonged to cid at all, yet found their way into his records all the same.”

she exhales a long breath and leans back against both hands, favoring the left. there is no sensation in her magitek limb beyond pressure, and the constant humming sting of her aether cycling through its processors. the ache pulsing up her spine and neck and shoulder were a downside that she quickly adjusted to, but blessedly the shuddering bite of pain that its now-defunct regulator inflicted on her was gone. all that light had been good for something after all.

“that sounds like him. he always cared so much about me and went out of his way to help my shenanigans any way he could. i can’t count how many times over i’d be dead were it not for his clutch saves, not even getting started on this one instance which i’m pretty sure rounds up to the several hundreds, at least.” she feels some weight against her limb but makes no mention of it and idly swings her legs forward and back.

g’raha chuckles when he lifts her mechanical hand as though it were weightless, its parts gliding silently against each other with total precision. despite the awkward and unyielding structure of her claws, he manages to carefully thread his spoken fingers through hers, edges poking into his skin and all.

tiamat stares at the contrast of metal to flesh and thinks back to every single time she had done the same gesture with his crystallized hand, more often than not during fragile moments wherein he’d shied away from view, or expressed self-loathing for being _more tower than man_ or some equal amounts of bullshit.

emotion snags in her throat and she swallows hard, utterly failing to rid herself of it. her cheeks burn. g’raha’s eyes meet hers and he smiles at her with such open adoration and warmth that she lacks the heart to even attempt to muster up any humor to tease him about it.

she squeezes his hand, so, so gently, and hopes it doesn’t hurt him too badly.


	14. rising wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sequel to falling snow
> 
> gen, h/c

when g’raha hears it, it becomes readily apparent he isn’t the only one. at once lyna pauses in her lecture, her tall ears canting towards the sound, and the both of them seek its origin as best they can through the dark. the nearby guards follow suit, and conversation and movement across the crystarium come to a slow, wondrous halt as the residents seek out the voice.

… singing?

“is that–?” lyna starts, visibly squinting and pointing to the spire atop one of the highest points of the city. g’raha can’t help a bewildered huff of laughter when sees tiamat, because of course that’s where she is, perched at easily one of the most dangerous spots she could be in the dead of night.

she stands in a relaxed pose, for as well as he can see her, her head tilted back and drachen mail sweeping around her feet like rested wings. from her comes a wordless song, dual-tone notes so familiar but not, weaving into a singular chorus that resounds across the crystarium and captures unanimous attention. g’raha is utterly enraptured by the impossible, echoing nature of her song as it both takes the breath from his lungs and breathes new life into him in equal measure.

 _the chorus_ , he realizes belatedly as he feels distinct wetness down his cheeks. she had only just confided in him of her pain while weeping over his copy of _heavensward_ , that morning. _this is dragonsong._

lyna covers her mouth with a hand, valiantly attempting to muffle her sobs with little success, though to her credit she keeps herself from trembling outright.

g’raha didn’t know his warrior could sing. he’d never heard of her doing such a thing, not himself or in any of the tales he read of her exploits. she was never known as musical, at any recorded point of her life.

but dragonsong was not the same as a lyric spun by bards and played on instruments. it was the way dragons communicated with their brood, unable to be understood by men save for those few blessed with the ability to transcend language. to hear the sweet melody of time eternal and love across generations, disguised under the guttural and horrible sound of beasts. and tiamat was one of the two last azure dragoons of her time.

 _this is my heart,_ she sings without saying, _this is what i want to tell you, to show you. this is my love for you and the love you have given me in return._

he is lost within her song and doesn’t notice his eyes slipping shut as he listens. he feels the delicate threads of hope that glimmer, holding strong, against endless waves of despair and regret. fragile like butterfly wings but tenacious as the vibrant bloom of a flower in desolate, lifeless soil. it causes his chest to ache, his heart too full as it beats in time with hers. 

_my dear friend, my light, i can hear you._ he wishes he could answer in kind, but knows she sings of her emotion in place where she cannot speak with words. there was no need for idle talk when action would express herself far more clearly.

an awful, beautiful pain lurches within him and rattles through his ribcage when he hears tiamat’s voice take on the melody only he and her ever knew, that he had so desperately tried to remember through every tragedy shaking his foundation. still so haunting in its delivery, g’raha can nevertheless whisper the words alongside her voice as they come to him all at once, as though he had never forgotten. 

once again she shares with him the inner most workings of her heart, for only he to understand in earnest, making the crystarium as a whole an unwitting witness of such uncanny intimacy between them.

 _the eternal winds throughout the land ascend,_ she tells him through her dragonsong as he quietly continues to only his own ears. 

“here to lift us that we won’t end.”


	15. nonsense vol. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> humor

their collection of oddballs stares up at the now-airborne mt. gulg in thoughtful silence. to reach vauthry would require both a method of transport and intense firepower to cut through the masses of sin eaters protecting the mountain, and while one was feasible, both was entirely out of their prospective abilities.

“i _could_ turn into a dragon, but i don’t think i’d be able to keep the form long enough to haul everyone up there with the aether as threadbare as it is,” the warrior hums, tapping her clawtips against her chin and not paying any mind to absolutely everyone within hearing distance all staring at her as though she had grown multiple heads.

“begging your pardon? you would _what_?” thancred says incredulously, alisaie hot on his heels and nearly shoving alphinaud aside in his shocked state. poor kid has been getting that treatment far too often as of late.

“ _becoming a dragon_? is that a recent development?” she demands, the woman under scrutiny making a small pout as if the notion of her lack of being a dragon was a slight against her skills. her ears cant backwards and add further emphasis to her look of displeasure.

“of course not. azure dragoon, remember? i’ve been fighting with dragon’s blood for longer than i’ve known some of you. besides, it wouldn’t be any fun if i gave away _all_ my secrets.” she talks as though the feat is just another one of her many cards to play, shrugging nonchalantly.

the exarch specifically looks as though he’s re-evaluating everything he’s ever learned of the warrior, and she waggles her eyebrows at him.


	16. XXI. The World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gen, romance, angst, h/c, many, all

there are too many thoughts racing through tiamat’s head even as the wardens’ light seeks to rip her apart from the inside. the exarch stands firm before her, ready to sacrifice himself without a second’s hesitation, and the only thing she has the strength to do is pathetically reach out to him with a leaden, shaking hand.

she had known he was g’raha, but she hadn’t _known_. he was so kind to her, so endlessly devoted and watched her all but literally hang the stars in their sky. he had begged her for help, but she had heard the tremor in his voice, the longing in the way his mouth would open to speak when they were in private, before he decided against it and looked away. he spent so long planning and preparing for this very moment, waiting for his death. for his story to reach its dramatic conclusion.

he had shown tiamat boundless love, and far more of it than she could nearly tolerate. he showed it in every concern he raised for her well-being and every gift he had freely given her. his warrior’s heart gradually warmed from his compassion, despite the lingering bitterness that prickled in the pit of her stomach from the calling of her friends. nevertheless, she trusted him when he said it wasn’t intentional, and that he was doing everything he could to send them back whole and hale. she had been skeptical initially, but she grew to trust him through his actions more than his incredibly vague words.

perhaps that was her mistake: trust. but g’raha had made it so easy, when he loved her this much, gently pushing aside her guards and renewing a blaze she hadn’t known since…

since,

she screams his name through the bright poison in her throat, and he looks at her in an entirely new way. wide-eyed, stunned. why? why was he so amazed, even now? hadn’t he known she would always remember those who allowed her to know happiness? to know love?

tears and light are streaming down her face, out her nose, in what she doesn’t doubt is a truly horrific sight for him. she does not care. she crawls across the cold marble, reaches and reaches and begs– please, please, not now, not after all of this, not when you– not when i–

a shot rings out and g’raha collapses, his face contorted in pain. tiamat barely registers the voice of emet-selch tearing into her, expressing his immense disappointment at her weakness, and spitting at her with vicious hatred. she only sees g’raha lying there, almost within reach, yet her body won’t move to him. she has to _move_. she has to save him, has to thank him, has to _tell him with the words she never understood how much she–_

a foundation gives way and tiamat inhales sharply, her everything fracturing from within. the world surrounding her shudders into non-existence and her chest bursts from the intensity of her emotion, a gust of freezing wind clearing out the debris of sorrow from the vast opening in her heart. her vision blurs. she sees g’raha. she sees–

estinien on his knee, begging her to kill him. she refuses and races to him. alphinaud is at her side in an instant and even with severe exhaustion from her fight with nidhogg sapping her of what power remained, she does not falter. no more, she decides then. i won’t let this war take anyone else from me. her pain fuels her and the searing agony of the eye attempting to dislodge her is no match for the love she bears for estinien, for the love of an echo beside her, covering her hands with his. 

haurchefant smiling up at her with blood running down the corners of his mouth. she begs him then in a broken voice to not leave her, while fat tears stream down her face. she prays for some kind of miracle to give him the strength to survive, like hydaelyn had done for her time and time again. she loves him more than she had ever known herself capable, and even with his demise cannot find the proper words to tell him such.

g’raha barely looking over his shoulder at them, at her, when he seals the gates to the tower. it’s the first time she has tasted heartbreak, and it destroys her.

_her father is old and gray and tells her in no uncertain terms to give her mother a hard time, when he’s gone and can no longer cause trouble. tiamat doesn’t understand what he means, why he would be gone, and he smiles sadly at her and ruffles her hair. he tells her he lived a full, long life, and knew great love and happiness. it was simply time for him to leave this world, no matter how sad the parting would be, and even if he wishes he could stay with his family for much longer.  
_

_“but,” he tells her, holding her small hands in his weathered ones. “know that no matter where you go, and no matter what happens, i will always be right there to cheer you on. even if i’m only background noise, i’ll be there for you, and i will always love you. you’re going to be a fighter, i can tell already, but you will never have to fight alone. remember that, little flower.”_

_tiamat and her mother plant a tree at his resting place. she visits decades later, grown into a young woman on the cusp of adulthood, and still venturing out in search of her place in the world. setting her bow aside in the grass, she rests in the shade of the oak’s leaves, and tells her father about her adventures while plucking the delicate strings of her harp. she plays for him the songs she’s learned in her travels, as well as the ones she’s written herself, and sings lyrics about triumph and love.  
_

“that’s what the story’s always been about, hasn’t it?” her own voice asks her from the flood of light. it’s too warm, too rich to be esteem’s, but it is hers all the same. “love. it’s always been about love, even all the way back to the start of this mess. it makes us do crazy things.” her tone is laced with amusement but still manages to sound so sad. “my tale may have ended an eternity ago, but yours has only just begun. so what will you do, my dear child, my beloved soul? will you write them all into these pages of yours with your own hands? will you take charge of this fate and share with them this happy ending you’ve fought so hard to achieve?”

she rejoins with ardbert, embracing wholly of his conviction to save their worlds. she wields the tremendous force of light against emet-selch to bring him low. she casts out the despair, the hopelessness, every bit of anger and sadness she had clung to helplessly for far too long. she drives through the darkness intending to suffocate her, piercing it directly with the sheer belief of her loved ones at her back and at her side.

her heart screams a chorus, harmonizes with the voices of souls lost, and she slams the back cover of the book shut.


	17. the twain shall meet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> special guest star
> 
> gen, weird h/c? man idk

“so tell me, do you seek retribution for your actions out of genuine guilt, or are you actually just trying to die?”

ah, so it is to be one of _those_ dreams. at least the clawed hand stroking through his hair is pleasant and familiar. he is far too drowsy to participate in this kind of conversation, in whatever context, but whether or not the soothing effects of sleep help or hurt his case remains to be seen.

“i do not intend to die, especially now when i am needed, but i nevertheless expected it as the result to save you. i… did not know of another feasible path.” g’raha tells her far too calmly and easily. his head is pillowed on her lap, his eyes relaxed shut. pointed clawtips press lightly into his scalp in a stinging reprimand.

“ _semantics_ ,” she responds sharply, “you anticipated your death with such certainty that you failed to entertain an alternative route, even with the full support of _the warrior_ at your disposal.” her tone momentarily lapses into mockery at the title, the sound of her voice nearly dripping with rancor. 

save for her sporadic, worse moods, g’raha rarely ever heard his warrior speak in such a manner. it’s certainly fitting enough for a dream intending to beat him senseless with his own guilt, and the one he loved most at the forefront to wield his self-loathing. her anger and rejection of him hurt him far deeper than most things he could think of, and despite all of his preparations to receive such fallout.

“rather than considering the notion that she may contribute to your plan, that she may have her own thoughts and methods to better it, you disconnected yourself from her entirely.” he feels her hand brush the bangs out of his eyes and lazily smooth them back, where they rebelliously slide right back into his face. from where her fingers brush his skin in their travels, he notices they are uncomfortably cold.

“your plan was suicide and you did not trust her enough to make decisions in regards to her own life, her own fate. you assumed she would throw her life away in an instant for you, if you gave her even _that_ chance alone. that she would do exactly as you did.”

this is remarkably specific and new material for the contents of his nightmares, and the former feeling of peace is stripped away by paralyzing dread. though her touch is wonderfully tender and unhurried, g’raha realizes too late he cannot see her from where he lies. he hears his warrior’s voice, but his eyes open to a pale abyss and see nothing of the person so intimately close.

“but you’ve probably already realized this, haven’t you? hindsight is so very clear, and self-doubt is so very easy. it’s easy to die, easy to blame, easy to wallow in your hurts. now, living with all of it? that is _far_ more difficult.”

he can feel the tower’s influence, its awareness of his immediate and nonthreatening surroundings. he feels its ancient power steadily coursing through him like his own blood, and answering to his summons with the rapid pace of his heart. this isn’t a dream. 

g’raha jolts in alarm and attempts to move away, but fails to muster enough strength to even prop himself upright and struggles pitifully. her hand leaves his head and spreads across his back to support him in his fight against immobility, against whatever is binding him there. who? _why?_

“you– i don’t know you,” he murmurs shakily through the panic hammering in his chest. “what–” it’s a losing battle and he slumps uselessly back into her lap, both of her hands carefully steadying him with such continuously familiar gentleness that his heart aches, knowing it isn’t _her._

“i would certainly hope not, since we’ve never met.” his warrior’s voice tells him with fond amusement while she once again fiddles with his hair, as though she is used to doing so. g’raha manages, through supreme effort and with a grimace, to turn his head and catches a sliver of white against a dark silhouette. a sad smile. “and should the fates be kind, dear one, we never will.”


	18. all work all play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gen, humor

“i really want to fight you,” tiamat says into the fabric at his shoulder, the sound of her whine only somewhat muffled by layers of cloth. his quill continues uninhibited across the most immediate form at his attention, even while the warrior stands slumped pathetically over him with most of her weight.

“when you told me of your intentions to speak more honestly, this was not quite what i had envisioned.” g’raha feels her head tilt up so she may leer at him, only a vague sensation where her chin digs harmlessly into crystal. he smiles wryly.

“i _am_ being honest, i’ll have you know,” she shoots back, “i have to constantly hold back whenever i do anything even _sort of_ combat-related with _anyone_ … it’s immensely frustrating, knowing i can’t truly practice to the best of my ability, since i’d break everything if i looked at it too hard.” her ears tilt with visible displeasure and one brushes the side of his head, sticking partway in his hair. “the only time i get to cut loose is when the world is about to end, or if i’m way too close to a dirt nap. i have full confidence you can hold up against me for real and i’m _a bit_ excited about it.”

g’raha pretends his grip doesn’t tighten dangerously close to snapping the quill into sad little pieces, though his hand’s sudden flinch leaves a messy streak of ink across the otherwise pristine writing.

“you do me too much credit,” he murmurs, immediately feeling swift retribution to his comment when tiamat reaches up and mercilessly pinches one of his ears. he yelps out a small, startled noise.

“i _told_ you how incredible you were when we went to kill the first lightwarden! when you were standing in front of us all with that arcane sword and shield, and kept all those sin eaters at bay! just you and your magic! i would _love_ to see that technique again, except in a situation so much less dire where i can appreciate it properly.” she releases his ear and apologetically rubs the shell between her forefinger and thumb, soothing in a way that has g’raha releasing a long sigh of contentment.

“i want to know what it feels like to have my sword deflected by that shield of yours. oh– and when we were with the dwarves– i want to see how big of an explosion we can make pitting _two flares_ against each other! i would very much enjoy getting to taste that power of yours for myself.” tiamat’s voice tapers off, but the deep admiration in her tone warms him long after she falls silent.

and yet, he still can’t help it: “would that i could share with you such ability of my own making, and not merely what the tower has provided.”

she growls indignantly at his lapse into self-depreciation and buries her face into his hair. her arms snake around his neck in a loose embrace.

“yes, and i would be perfectly as skilled in combat without any of my job crystals, or my weapons, or any of my armor. don’t be an idiot, raha.”

the following laugh comes to g'raha remarkably easily, a cheeky grin crossing his features.

“i can almost hear the compliment in the midst of that,” he tells her, unrestrained happiness filling his chest.

the moment he lets his guard down at the sentiments shared between them, tiamat closes in eagerly on the papers before him. g'raha quickly finds himself batting her wandering claws away.

“and i’m completely serious about it. let’s go beat each other up. half of those papers are mine, anyway. i had to give excruciating detail regarding the samiel herd we discovered as if i didn’t just stumble around with a pickaxe the entire time…”

somehow both of her hands end up caught in his, and the resulting immature struggle is very brief while she glowers down at the reports with humorous amounts of intensity.

“so what i’m hearing is that you’re ultimately responsible for my increase in paperwork.”

since both of her hands are otherwise occupied, tiamat retaliates at this offense by nipping at his ear. again, he laughs.


	19. wake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alternate scene to the twain shall meet
> 
> gen

elidibus tries for the exarch only once. infernal technologies providing a crutch aside, he is yet merely mortal. his vulnerabilities and weaknesses, if taken advantage of properly, would spell quick disaster for both he and everyone who depended on his borrowed power.

he tries once. breaches the lifestream, the contrasting domain of piercing light, and claws his way across shards to sink zodiark’s influence into its fragile state.

elidibus, for all his efforts of caution, is siphoned haphazardly into an empty space and suffocates, writhes, in the utter lack of darkness he finds there. he flounders and backtracks desperately, while his thinly spread aether is shredded at the edges by ravenous, glittering teeth.

he sees the exarch, impossibly, resting in the presence of another, who raises her masked gaze to meet him in a placid expression elidibus can only gape at. the sheer heartbreak and denial that lances through him then will remain unmentioned, unacknowledged, for far beyond his perpetual existence.

he flees. he would pray for strength from his god to face her, were he not so pathetically alone in his battle. were emet-selch still present to challenge the traitor of their worlds, the ultimate betrayer. she who still held their hearts in her hands even while she made certain of their total demise.

the power she wields, her unrelenting rage and steadfast conviction, is second to none. the awakening of her memory in mere fragments spells destruction for him, for zodiark, for possibly _even more_ , and elidibus has no choice but to impose as much distance as he is able if he is to survive another moon.

no matter his pleas, he knows full well the fourteenth would not hesitate to strike him down the moment she has the opportunity to do so. even should the choice destroy him, he must treat her imminent ascension as the deciding battle he knows it will be.


	20. origin of light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> grandma interactions
> 
> gen

g’raha finds himself dreaming of this same, unknown woman far more often than he’s willing to admit. he’s long since cast aside the possibility that she is a mere figment of his wounded imagination, but lacks the knowledge to properly judge as to whether or not she… exists, in whatever form, elsewhere.

she is astoundingly tall, not unlike a highlander, with dark skin and piercing yellow eyes. initially, he could see the association to the late emet-selch in the color of her gaze, but now that the stark contrast of the two is so apparent, he’s somewhat embarrassed for having entertained the thought at all. where the ascian’s eyes had been cold and hateful, hers are blazing, so openly warm and welcoming like the first day of sun after a long winter. 

it’s a wonder g’raha is even able to remember such a thing, as long ago as it had been since he was last able to experience seasons. something in this familiar stranger rekindles his past in a way not unlike his warrior does on a regular basis, and it serves to lower his guard in her presence. though their first encounter was terrifying in its own right, he has good reason to believe she had not directly been the cause of his horror. rather, the opposite. she had protected him, though from what, he is uncertain. she has been very skilled at evading his inquiries on the matter.

“just consider me a funny-shaped dreamcatcher,” she says to him breezily while braiding a section of her lengthy hair. her voice is a perfect match to his warrior’s, though the inflection is not quite right. “i’m keeping you out of trouble. doing everyone a favor and making sure you get proper rest, being so old and whatnot.”

their sense of humor is identical. g’raha gives her a withering look and she smiles broadly.

“truthfully, it’s only here that i can exist as i am. i lack the power to conjure a shade anywhere else, most especially in the waking world.” something sad crosses her expression. “this is for the best, either way. your tower is delightfully adept at processing and transmuting aether. without it, i would not have been able to take shape at all. plus, being out there would cause… significant problems i am not equipped to handle.”

his ears pivot upright when she looks away. he draws his knees up to his chest and drapes his arms around them, his tail curling idly, and watches her for several heartbeats. the same mannerisms, same rationale, same…

“if i were to ask of your identity again, would you consider giving me a better answer?” g’raha meets those sharp eyes with his own when her attention returns to him. gone is the light-hearted cheer, and there rests someone impossibly ancient and wise, and burdened in equal amount. he has a feeling he already knows the answer, but would rather hear it spoken all the same.

“i’m afraid not, dear one. ghosts such as myself have no place in your present, your future.” she tilts her head back and closes her eyes. g’raha can imagine the tall ears she does not have, moving with her emotions. “i would not interfere as much as possible, in this life i have no place in. i am… content to be as i am, to offer what meager protection i can against those who would do you harm. i feel i owe that much.” her voice drifts into a near whisper.

 _to what, to whom do you owe?_ he wants to press, despite knowing the question would fall through.

“yet… i find myself weak, in this moment. perhaps i am lonely. perhaps i am being influenced by those i left behind in this world of yours.” her smile is frail, but honest.

he remains still when her hand reaches out and gingerly holds his jaw. her thumb traces along the crystal running jagged across his cheek. so gentle, so fondly. she sighs.

“it’s more than likely you won’t be able to recall this when you wake, but some part of me hopes you’ll remember. my name is hestia, and i have caused you far too much pain.”


	21. vanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw for potential body image issues, mild body horror / injury mention
> 
> light angst, h/c

“stop looking at me like that,” tiamat barks, her words lacking a significant amount of bite. if anything, she merely pouts indignantly in g’raha’s direction, who raises his hands in defense and offers her a placating smile.

“i am unsure, then, how you’d wish for me to look at you.” his words are calm, deliberating tempering the oncoming blaze of her irritation– and with rousing success, if the sagging of her shoulders is any indication. tiamat’s claws pick at a zipper on her side, and already he can see scars lancing across her bicep and ribs. g’raha feels his jaw clench unwittingly.

she sniffs and yanks off her top. he tries valiantly to not immediately shy away or cover his face at the sight of her exposed skin, though his face burns intensely regardless. this is not meant to be intimate in a romantic pretense, he is fully aware, but there is still such an achingly deep trust the warrior is showing him as the glamour masking her marred body fades.

and, entirely truthfully, it’s so much worse than he had feared. … she always took so much pride in her appearance, after all.

“so, there’s a lot of stories, here,” tiamat mutters, nervously running a hand across the knots of raised tissue below her bound breasts. g’raha traces along the line of the old injury with his eyes and watches it taper down to her belly button. some webs out at her side, spanning up and across her chest, and it doesn’t take a great deal of consideration for him to see the overlap of different wounds. in such a vital area, these were not meant to leave scars.

he doesn’t know what to say, his throat too tight and heart breaking all over again. he sees every manner of weapon and magic torn into tiamat’s flesh, slices of glancing blows into the fat at her waist, burn scars riddled across the forearm she had used to shield herself, and all meant to kill but only succeeding at ripping her apart. to leave her struggling to put every messy piece of her image back together, only for her to jump into yet another fight, another war, to repeat the process indefinitely. the scarring around her magitek limb very nearly consumes her shoulder, snaking around her neck in a pattern not unlike levin. the physical price she has paid, g’raha thinks, for having merged with something inorganic to prolong her battle. he tastes blood at the back of his throat.

“see, there’s that look again. the one you’re making right now.” her voice is too weak to jest properly, and her smile is forced. “i’ve been… hurt pretty bad a remarkable amount of times for such a short career. at first it was just primals, but then a lot of folk decided they hated me that much, i guess. and then there were still primals. and they… they aren’t really known for having merciful directives.”

he doesn’t notice when he rises to his feet and walks over to tiamat with slow, methodical steps, but g’raha does see her tense in reflex at his sudden proximity to her. she is so uncomfortable, so vulnerable at this moment, and the exarch wants to bury her under a ludicrous amount of cloaks and blankets. everything he can to shield her from the reality of what was done to her, to allow her to live in ignorance and pretend she does not feel as broken as she believes. 

it’s a futile effort and he knows this well. perhaps this is what ultimately drove tiamat to him: the mutual understanding of what it meant to give up everything you are for a cause. to sacrifice flesh and blood alike for a future you may never live to see.

upon closer examination, he sees previously glamoured scars cutting up her jaw and into her lower lip. a discoloration resting at her hairline and sinking into her eyebrows, all hidden carefully underneath her bangs. though her ears are flattened back with apprehension, he can imagine they have a fair amount of nicks taken out of the edges, and lasting damage to the fur growth on the outer shell.

g’raha exhales steadily, silently, and meets her gaze with as mild of an expression as possible. just as tiamat possesses great disdain for the way he views her and her hurts with overwhelming sympathy, he is certain she would not appreciate empty sentiment and token reassurance. she is not just the warrior, the weapon of light. she is but a single woman with a terrible destiny. she yearns for acceptance and companionship, for someone to exist with her as an equal, same as he.

“i would like to hear these stories of yours, if it would not cause you too much trouble,” he says to her in a low volume reserved for just such private moments. he reaches for her hand, which in turn lifts to meet his in the middle. their fingers cling to each other loosely.

tiamat huffs out a small, but honest, laugh. “it’ll take a while to get through them all, and don’t think i’ll leave out the stupid bits where i slipped and fell into witchdrop multiple times.”

“then i suppose we’d better get started as soon as possible, to work our way through them.” he gives her a lopsided smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. she ducks her head and smiles as well, a little flushed across her cheeks, but looking happier than he’s seen her in a long while.


	22. a heartfelt present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gen

“got something for you.”

thancred barely has time to turn around before a bullet cartridge is tossed to him, which he catches effortlessly and solely by reflex. tiamat stands a few fair yalms away, both hands on her hips. he looks down curiosity at the case and then up at her, an eyebrow raised.

she holds herself somewhat awkwardly under his attention, her ears flicking back and forward, and her jaw working as she struggles to piece together her words. the strange ammunition hums in his hands, even through his gloves.

“ryne showed me how to imbue these things, so i figured i’d put my monstrous amounts of aether to good use. but– listen--” she shakes her head a little, but whether the gesture is intended for herself or him, thancred is unsure. nevertheless, he waits for her patiently while she strides closer to him, stopping within a comfortable distance and ready to continue speaking.

“i wanted you to have these, for… for emergencies, i suppose. but different than what we’d _usually_ consider emergencies. these bullets are terrible, awful things and it took me way too much internal debate to decide if i should even make them at all.” she wrings her hands together. her glamour is dropped and the magitek arm contrasts disturbingly against the rest of her well-groomed appearance.

“these are for killing.” tiamat says firmly, more confidently, and meets thancred’s gaze. “sometimes skill and luck aren’t enough, and sometimes you need something– _someone_ – dead. there may be a time where you can’t risk the alternative, where even if you _could_ fight, you aren’t willing to make that gamble.” she rests her mechanical hand lightly on the cartridge still openly displayed in his own. it burns with the kind of raw power thancred sorely lacks, that the warrior of light is both respected and feared for in equal measure.

“so that’s why i wanted you to have these; to make sure whatever you use them against will _die_. this kind of ammunition isn’t just a last resort… it’s _so_ much worse, but that’s really on me for putting them together.” she smiles ruefully at him, withdrawing and feigning nonchalance in a loose posture, her weight shifted onto one side. “i know you’ll use them well. i trust you.”

the sineaters are a less constant hazard since the return of night, but facing them at all is still a very real danger while traveling across the first. this close to the light bleached waste of the empty, they tend to gather in larger numbers to leech what aether they are able at its borders, before inevitably starving of it and perishing in bursts of glimmer. it’s all they can do, since going within range of any populace leads to an even swifter demise.

thancred knows he can continue to fight the one hovering before him. though it is large, it’s still very weakened, and he knows he’ll be able to wear it down no matter how maddened from hunger it may be. he’ll pull its attention and give ryne enough leeway to flank it from her position, hidden in the shade. together, they should be able to take the it down, so long as they’re cautious about their actions.

but, he is tired from their journey, and from this battle of endurance. even more so, _ryne_ is tired, and trembles from exertion while unflinchingly seeking his guidance and instruction. thancred sees fear weighing down her shoulders and causing her hands to grip her daggers that much tighter, her knuckles pale. 

he could fight it off himself, if need be. should ryne stumble or mismanage her attacks due to exhaustion, thancred is certain he would be able to, at the very least, fight the creature off so they could retreat. he could get them to safety.

ryne swallows hard, her throat dry from their extended time out in the desert, but nevertheless lowers herself into a proper combat stance. she understands his thoughts without him needing to tell her them proper. she will fight at his command.

and yet… and yet– 

something in his chest tightens. she will fight the eater alongside him with every bit of strength she has, and he knows she will do her best to not falter, but even _still_ thancred can’t–

he doesn’t know what makes this time different than all the last, but he can’t do it. he can’t risk her.

thancred jams a cursed bullet into his gunblade and lunges for the eater before he has another second to think. the roar of the warrior’s power courses so violently through the weapon and up his arm that he clenches his teeth, the strain on his body causing him immense discomfort. he misses ryne startling from her position and instinctively leaping backwards into relative safety, no doubt alarmed by the potent burst of aether thancred should not be wielding.

he snarls with uncharacteristic aggression and drags his blade at a heavy angle through the eater, bisecting it with a precise explosion of aether. its halves shriek and thrash and dissolve from the empowered strike, each crumbling part of its body shredded so viciously, so thoroughly, the remaining particles vaporize into the atmosphere. it all takes less than a second, and leaves a near vacuum in its place where thancred struggles to breathe due to the sudden displacement of aether.

he lands hard in the sands below and gasps for breath, ryne rushing over to his side and gingerly placing a small hand on his shoulder. thancred coughs raggedly, his chest heaving with every pained inhale, and he dumbly blinks up at her. 

the girl’s expression of horrified bewilderment causes him to rethink that meeting with tiamat. the way the warrior of light and dark shuffled so nervously, uncertain of herself, while entrusting to him the most deadly of gifts she could offer. despite his best efforts to refute the thought, this casts the woman in a drastically different light, and thancred can see a similar realization turning over in ryne’s eyes.

this power to utterly kill, to destroy beyond measure, given to him in a gesture of love and the burden of knowing that he would no longer be able to view her in the same way.


	23. king's gambit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> metaphors............
> 
> gen

“i’m beginning to suspect you’re dragging this game on intentionally,” thancred mutters while moving his knight, a little wooden figure shaped into a dragoon’s helm, back towards himself. tiamat is silent, considering her options for several beats, before she slides her rook into the gap at its side from the corner of the board.

“hilariously, that was a very common occurrence during games i played against ishgardians.” she crooks a fond smile while watching him drum his fingers absentmindedly on his leg. “so high and mighty about their skill at _a game of logic_ _and strategy_ , and thinking me some kind of idiot just for being an outsider. right up until i drive them into madness with my nonsense plays. even if i lost, it was still worth it to make them so flustered for having their precious logic toyed with.”

thancred rolls his eyes both at the thought of ishgardian nobles as a general entity, and also at the way tiamat mentally checks out while she relives memories of her causing people mild amounts of grief, solely because she could. he takes her bishop while she doubtlessly strokes her own ego.

the following silence is companionable, at any rate, and thancred is glad for the moment of inconsequential peace. the soft clicking of chess pieces permeates the rustling of wind through trees, and distant chatter of marketeers in the crystarium is only occasionally interrupted by hesitant birdsong. this sort of calm is a rare luxury, indeed, and he isn’t looking forward to resuming their venture out into the empty in the coming days.

“what are you even _doing_?” he questions a little harshly and tiamat shoots him a nasty squint, her nose wrinkling in indignation. his queen is well on the opposite side of the board and she pays it and his other actions no mind, instead choosing to fuss over the movements of her pawns while unflinchingly sacrificing several greater pieces to him. she moves her own queen forward and thancred scoffs, immediately claiming it with a dragoon-knight. “if you’re looking to frustrate me over a game, you’ll have to try a lot harder. i did room with urianger for _years_ while we were still in our studies.”

“your romantic life isn’t my concern, i assure you. i play to win.” the warrior responds smoothly and with unfair amounts of grace, leaving thancred to sputter uselessly. she moves her remaining bishop in a short, diagonal line and punctuates its positioning with a solid tap of wood against wood. she looks up at him, the angle of light giving her gaze the familiar gleam of a predator closing in on its kill. “checkmate.”

“no…” thancred groans lowly in disbelief, seeing his poor king stuck in a deadlock between her knight and bishop. she had so meticulously moved her pawns and forsaken so many of her pieces that she’d successfully drawn his attention away from her subterfuge. it was a little embarrassing, really, to be beaten at his own game. it wasn’t as though tiamat were a kindred spirit in that regard.

he slaps a hand across his face and chuckles warmly, even if the loss and subsequent blow to his pride stings a bit. a good game is a good game, no matter who the victor may be. “unbelievable. i should have known better to not challenge someone who lived in ishgard for the better part of a year.”

tiamat shrugs. “if it makes you feel any better, they weren’t the ones to teach me how to play. i just got a lot of practice there.”

she knocks his king over with a small flick of her fingers.


	24. culmination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> humor, romance

g’raha has her pinned down against the carpet with most of his weight, her wrist held firmly overhead and her arm bent at a steep angle. tiamat heaves a long, likely exaggerated inhale and sharply blows some loose strands of hair out of her face. his heart hammers beneath crystal.

he knew eventually their generally innocent, ridiculously childish roughhousing would take a dramatic turn into something far more intimate. he knew, since he was but a boy and their playful closeness and the warrior of light’s antics for mayhem were terrifying and, more specifically involving the former, wholly unfathomable to him. g’raha had always known, since she would push and prod (and oh, how she _loved_ to prod) him every which way seeking any number of responses and delighting in his embarrassed stammering.

she enjoyed testing his boundaries in all the best and worst ways, but fortunately for his sanity, g’raha has rather impressively expanded his horizons in the last century. he credits this fact to explain how he is able to keep himself from combusting instantly as he lies above her, his face nevertheless blazing red with heat. learned composure aside, at the rate this standoff is going, his heart may very well burst from his chest entirely.

“so…” tiamat starts softly, staring up at him with wide eyes. he’s never seen her so flushed before and it causes his blood to _boil._ “is this a yes to my earlier offer, then?” she sounds breathless, looking so utterly _bewildered_ at him through her mess of dark hair, caught off guard by something achingly personal and, on a greater scale, _insignificant_. just by meeting her openly surprised gaze the once, g’raha feels any tension between them break apart into nothing and his world spins quickly back around onto its proper axis. he _laughs_.

his head slumps forward into her collarbone and he laughs harder than he knew himself capable and definitely harder than he has in a very, very long time. after mere seconds, tiamat follows suit and begins her own fit of humor with a voice so wholehearted and obnoxious and _wonderfully_ her own that g’raha’s heart leaps at the sound of it. he struggles to continue holding himself more or less upright with his free arm through his laughter, while she, as extremely unhelpful as ever, pats him on the back in rapid and light movements. she cackles into his hair and he wiggles his ears, shivering a little over mixed sensations and the feeling of her breath against his fur.

“okay, okay– but–” tiamat wheezes, “seriously is– this _is_ a yes, right? it’s–?”

in lieu of an answer, and because he would be damned to not press the advantage while he still could, g’raha captures her mouth with his.


	25. cosmos of grandeur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5.1 spoilers
> 
> humor, romance

“should i be concerned about your decision to use black magic for this particular venture?” g’raha’s voice is borderline incredulous as he gives his conjured blade an experimental swing, the target of his inquiry standing nearby cloaked in dark, gold-lined fabrics and colorful jewelry. “more specifically involving closed spaces and narrow hallways– and possibly very old and very _flammable_ decor?”

her eyes may remain hidden under the visor of her macabre mask, but her sharp grin does nothing to set his mind at ease. oh, he should have known. he really should have.

“it’ll be fine,” tiamat says easily with a dismissive wave of her hand, sauntering on ahead for a better view of the manor resting artfully at the horizon. her staff sits deceptively harmlessly against her back, swaying a little with each step. “alphinaud is a fantastic healer.”

“… you truly terrify me at times, my friend.”

—

“you need to move the seeds away from the range of her magic!” alphinaud barks as he aggressively cleanses multiple toxins from the exarch, who at the very least appears none the worse for wear and keeps the fae’s attention on him with utmost grace. 

tiamat, meanwhile, has been loudly whining about the struggle to cast her spells for the past minute and alphinaud is too deeply focused to tell her off again.

“and how was i supposed to know that?!” alisaie demands blisteringly with a clean flip backwards and out of melee range, where she resumes casting.

“they are _plants_! they use her magic to _grow_! the spots on the ground are _quite literally glowing_ with her magic!” his shouts to his sister are mostly drowned out by massive storms of fire exploding overhead in rapid succession, and alphinaud ruefully considers how black magic had been outlawed in its entirety across nations on the source. if only he could be so lucky.

“well i’m _sorry_ if i am not fighting to your _standards_!”

rather than avoiding a very avoidable attack, tiamat grits her teeth and braces herself against the torrent of razor-edges vines and leaves brutalizing her and lets loose a flare. 

he wants to cry.

—

“dance with me!” 

g’raha stares down at her offered, clawed gauntlet with wide eyes. after an awkwardly long pause with his words all lodged helpfully in his throat, he lifts his attention to tiamat’s shielded gaze and her bright smile. the elven ghosts twirl about all around them and he is unable to form a proper answer.

“th- this is hardly the time or place,” g’raha says to her instead, his voice wavering with a plethora of embarrassing feelings he intends to take to his grave and perhaps afterlife.

“you seem to have mistaken me for someone who cares, sweet raha.” 

she takes his hands in hers and tugs him close. the exarch lets out a startled noise against her chest that he doubts he’ll ever be able to live down, even if the sound of her pleased laughter does wonders to soothe his pride. 

he moves haphazardly along with her gentle steps and breathes in deeply at her collarbone, the scent of magic and aether and something definitely singed but most importantly _her_ making him feel light-headed in all the best ways. time, place. irrelevant. he quickly shifts their positions and pulls tiamat effortlessly into his lead and her delighted expression spurs him onward.

from the far exit alisaie yells at them to find a room.

—

“remember how you were so concerned with my black magic?”

“i remember, yes.”

“and how you were _so sure_ i would set everything on fire?”

“i did not say everything, but knowing you, my paranoia was well-founded.”

“indeed! and look how everything was burned to a crisp not at all by yours truly. it’s funny how that ends up happening.”

“do you intend to continue with this line of conversation the entire way back?”

“that depends. would you care to dance with me again? somewhere private, where a _very different_ sort of fire-starting is deliciously encouraged and you can lead me every which way you like?”

“… you will be the death of me.”


	26. leave of absence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> angst, light h/c

his hands do not shake as he wordlessly wipes the smears of blood from her chin, in a sort of practiced ease that makes her stomach twist. she tries to not clench her jaw through the anxiety hammering away within her chest. he would surely notice.

“it’s just a nosebleed,” tiamat says quietly, attempting to keep her tone light in the face of the darkness blanketing g'raha’s expression.

“this is not the first time this has happened,” he replies somberly and pulls the cloth away to examine his work. there are only so many ways to clean blood. “nor is it the first time you’ve suffered this sort of ailment upon returning from a particularly… taxing adventure. you’ve been overworking yourself.”

she can’t help but smile bitterly at that. moments like these are the worst; nothing resembling humor shared between them. entirely too serious.

“pot, meet kettle.” 

he looks even less amused at that and tiamat immediately regrets her words, her mouth falling open uselessly. g'raha recovers without a second lost and meets her gaze, the intensity she had grown to love and dread clear in the crimson eyes that focus on her.

“you are unwell.” he breathes it like a sentence, a finality. she wonders if he knows that it is.

“i am mortal, for better or worse. there’s only so much my body can handle of primals, wars, and… everything else.” she pointedly looks away and at a glittering, crystalline wall. she finds herself growing to despise that blue and its glow certainly did nothing to relieve her headaches. “how i bend and break is ultimately irrelevant in the grand scheme of things.”

tiamat glances down at her hands, one blistered and scarred and the other wholly artificial where the original had been taken from her. she possesses such endless aches from old wounds hastily healed in the rush of battle, that the magitek system built into her flesh and bone is almost a relief with its consistent, mellow buzzing. “i have to keep going, raha. you know that i cannot stop, not now. perhaps not ever.”

she barely has the time to inhale before g'raha yanks her close and hugs her to his chest, his arms clutching onto her with fierce desperation and his fingers digging into her hair and collar. her eyes burn but she lacks the energy to cry. she’d been doing that quite a lot as of late.

“would that i had the power to free you from this battle,” g'raha nearly hisses against her head. it’s an ugly sound, his voice, rough with anger and the despair of a century’s worth of loss. she’s heard it from herself plenty as she cursed the world and screamed into the sky atop a lonely cliff. “you do not deserve to suffer as you have. to bear such burden. if there is naught else i can do for you on the source, then– while you remain here, if i may at the very least ease your pain, or grant you peaceful rest. anything to prevent you from returning to me falling to _piece_ s–” his voice breaks and so does she.

“ask me to stay, raha.” her good hand slides up to his back and she gently hooks her claws into the fabric of his robe. “ask me to stay and i will. you need only ask.”

he holds her tighter and his nose presses into the base of her ear. tiamat can feel rather than hear his shaky exhale against the fur there. she would be perfectly content if he never released her.

“i cannot be the one who chains you.”

“i have only ever known chains,” she speaks through her bared teeth, “for as long as i’ve been fighting, i have never known what it was like to fly.” she attempts to burrow deeper into g'raha’s front, as though she could hide within his embrace. she wants to be small and weak. “please, tell me to stay.”

he does not respond, only continues to cradle her and smooths his fingers through her hair. tiamat wills herself to close her eyes.

he refuses to be selfish for the both of them and risk forsaking the future he sacrificed so much to save, even if it meant their misery. she could not hate him for that decision. he is yet a good person.

such sins would be hers to bear, as they always have been.


	27. regrets laid bare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lightwarden? lightwarden.
> 
> sort of
> 
> light angst. gen. something...

the discomfort of the scions is very nearly tangible between them, at the sight of this misplaced, pseudo lightwarden. tiamat silently wonders if they realize how sickeningly understandable its existence is to her, on a more personal note. the likeness it possesses of her is to be expected given its nature, and the poetic grotesqueness of its form she obtusely appreciates, for all its inherent wrongness. that said, there is no hiding the way her friends tense and very nearly shrink in on themselves, wholly unprepared to face down a monster with her face.

oh, that’s a clever metaphor. they truly are alike.

“is this… emet-selch’s doing?” alphinaud asks carefully in a measured voice, as though his words would risk antagonizing the warden into hostility. he is in no danger. tiamat knows this with utmost certainty.

“no.” her response is short, blunt. another thing she’s certain of: the late ascian had nothing to do with this creature’s birth. this was all her own responsibility.

it shrieks in her voice and flutters awkwardly, its six wings spanning wide and feathers breaking loose at the edges to scatter into the air. its long arms and claws find its face and dig helplessly into it, digits hooking into its wide, monstrous mouth and yanking at its jaw. gold dribbles from the opening and runs in bright rivulets down its front, pooling on the ground below. its hind claws, more like talons, really, scrabble at the marble as though trying and failing to find purchase.

she cannot see its eyes. it wears her face as a literal mask that shields the upper most part of its head with an expression of cold indifference, exposing only the rows of fangs cutting back deeply into its jawline. it continues to gouge pointed nails aggressively into its face, not the facade, and scream brokenly.

the longer tiamat stares at this tragic thing, the more she understands.

“i think it just wanted to live,” she says quietly, feeling the eyes of those around her all focus on her. “i don’t know why it exists at all, or if it means anything in regards to what i went through, but…” she trails off, pressing her lips together tightly with her indecisiveness. it has to die, and it will die, and she somehow feels bad about it even still.

is this fair of her? a genuine threat to everything living, an abomination reflecting her image, and she yet feels _guilt_ about the necessity of it slain. she has killed far more _innocents_ with far less regrets.

“it is in pain.”

tiamat doesn’t expect to hear _the exarch_ of all people speak up, not with the total nightmare scenario so flagrantly hovering before him. she wills herself to not look back at him out of fear of what she’d see in g'raha's knowing gaze.

he knows the contents of her heart without needing them to be openly shared. he would not inflict such vulnerability on her.

sighing, the warrior steps obediently forward and reaches to the hilt of her claymore. the lightwarden thrashes in place and splatters liquid light in a violent arc. it screams and weeps.

“metanoia,” tiamat tells it as she summons forth the dark energy stewing within the confines of her chest. “for all that i’ve done and all that i will continue to do. please die.”

with a single uninhibited sweep of her blade, metanoia is vanquished. spots remain in tiamat’s vision for heartbeats after it disintegrates, and she pretends the burning in her eyes is from the blinding flash of her eater’s death.


	28. pocky day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gen, humor, fluff

the small box rattles a little when tiamat offers it out to him, already opened and somewhat picked through.

“want some?” she asks g'raha while continuing to munch on one of the biscuit treats, working through it at such a steady velocity that it is surely a miracle that there are any left to share.

“ah,” he responds intelligently, tilting his head a bit to get a better look at the label. naturally it’s in a language he has no knowledge of.

“got it in kugane.” she plucks another from the packaging and sticks it between her teeth, continuing to speak all the while. “they told me it’s called ‘pocky,’ but to be honest i’m not entirely sure if that’s its real name or if they were messing with a foreigner. they’re like stick-shaped crackers and these ones have chocolate on them. there were a lot of more varied and interesting flavors for sale but if i wanted to play their little _pocky game_ with somebody i would need one that is fairly safe for… general consumption.”

“a game?” g'raha asks and obligingly takes one, just before tiamat goes back for a third and jams it into her face.

“it’s like chicken, which i know we’ve _definitel_ y played before around very old and very dangerous uh– anyway.” she crunches on the pocky and glances away briefly. _“this_ kind of chicken, however, just involves two individuals biting through either end of this tasty little snack until one person folds, or we kiss.”

he pauses part-way through the chocolate portion, fully prepared to ask his hero to bring more next time with zero shame, and looks at her. besides so benevolently offering her bounty the once, tiamat does not appear to be interested in doing more than continuing to eat the entire box.

“so… is that something you intended to do with someone?” g'raha questions warily, justifiably expecting an announcement of an ulterior motive from someone who would challenge him to a game of chicken around impossibly ancient and valuable artifacts wherein he only _participated_ , if he would even dare call it such, because she was too reckless and unafraid of heights and much faster at navigating narrow, raised ledges than he, and he needed her to continue to be alive for the expedition to progress.

first one to give up and climb back down loses, indeed.

“i had planned on it, yes, but i figure since i can kiss you any time i want, why would i want to make it into a silly game and waste perfectly good food like that? i can just eat these and kiss you after. or before. or even _during_.” she waves her hand as she speaks so casually while g'raha silently cooks in place, ducking his head in embarrassment at her forwardness.

still, he is able to laugh by this point in their relationship. “i see, so you’re only sharing these with me now out of a sense of obligation for denying me a chance to have any in this game of yours. how very courteous, my warrior.”

“don’t be fooled by my acts of charity, as i am still _intensely_ selfish, my raha.”

quick as she ever was, she leans in and catches the half-eaten pocky hanging from his mouth with her teeth, grinning vibrantly at the lovely shade of red that rapidly flushes across his cheeks. he mock growls and bites off at his end, surrendering the meager portion to tiamat, who laughs and takes it out of her mouth so she is free to press her lips to his.


	29. life and times with the exarch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gen. humor. humormance. soft angst. all

“he dared me to reach the light post. was i supposed to just say no?”

g'raha tries very hard to not bury his face in his hands, or make the most pathetic and resigned groaning noise of his existence. he tries so very hard.

“i would hope that you would use proper judgment when told to jump from a high ledge. i can see i was sorely mistaken.”

tiamat nods sagely and adjusts the packs of ice wrapped around her bruised and swollen ankles. he has no idea what he expected.

\---

with the way tiamat stares so intensely down at the two mammets, one would think she was on the verge of a groundbreaking discovery in regards to her goldsmithing abilities. g'raha unfortunately knows better.

“dare i ask what you’ve come up with for our little replicas?” he asks anyway, a rookie mistake, approaching her while she sits in an undignified squat. one of her tall ears tilts back towards him in acknowledgement.

the warrior and esteemed mammeteer makes a thoughtful humming sound and taps her chin with a clawtip. the wind-up toys of his and hers, respectively, stare blankly up at her, though g'raha _swears_ he sees the one with his adolescent likeness momentarily glance in his direction.

“she becomes hostile when i take him out,” the warrior explains, causing the exarch to blink rapidly in astonishment.

“they _fight_ _each other_?” he asks in disbelief (but also, not really), and she shakes her head in reply and reaches out towards his mammet. near instantaneously the mini-warrior lunges at her hand and grabs a hold of it in its tiny limbs, and remains latched on even when tiamat sits back and lifts it to her eye level.

“ah.” g'raha crosses his arms and smiles in fond amusement as she tries to pry the toy off with little success. “so it has learned from the master.”

“don’t get too chuffed, raha,” tiamat warns flatly, careful to not damage any of her creation even while it seems fully intent on doing just that to her, “your son behaves no better.”

“ _my what-_ -” he blurts out at the same time wind-up g'raha headbutts his leg at full speed.

\---

“and what will you do,” he asks quietly, enough so that her ears both tilt towards him as he speaks, “when your g'raha tia awakens?”

her face twists into a scowl.

“ _my_ g'raha is right here, asking me stupid questions.” compared to the hesitance in his volume, her voice nearly booms. his eyes widen in surprise at the intensity of her response.

“that said. when the time comes i shall do exactly as i planned to do from the start, and that which i promised myself.” she lighty punches a fist into her opposing, open palm. “i’ll beat the absolute _piss_ out of him for doing that shit to me.”

she then makes direct, deliberate eye contact. he quickly looks away and awkwardly clears his throat, his fur standing on end beneath his robes.


	30. inheritance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gen, humor

“since when do you have a tail?!” alisaie yelps impolitely at tiamat, while the aforementioned woman, entirely unfazed at the outburst, tucks her vest into the small storage cubby provided by the lakeland hotsprings.

“i don’t have a tail,” tiamat responds smoothly while pointedly wiggling her short tail in a way that reminds alisaie delightfully of a kitten’s, not that she would ever admit it.

y’shtola shoots the girl an stern look at her open display of disrespect, but says nothing and resumes carefully grooming her own tail with a fine-toothed comb.

“why do you hide it? it suits you very well, i think.” alisaie continues, stomping all over basic miqo’te etiquette. tiamat shrugs lightly and kicks off her boots.

“eh. since i came out mostly viera, it doesn’t have much use besides being an easy weak spot. i have to tailor my own pants though, which is definitely irritating…” trailing off, she snatches a towel and crudely shakes it out of its perfect fold.

“ _and_ you’ve secretly taken up weaving,” y’shtola adds in with an amused smirk.

a low sound of complaint hums in her chest. “i’m not a weaver.”

alisaie aggressively puffs ashy white bangs out of her eyes, then tosses her towel over a shoulder and rests her opposing hand on her hip.

“there’s so many things i don’t know about you, and it feels quite unfair considering how much time we’ve spent together.” she watches tiamat fiddle with something in the magitek of her arm.

“you never asked.” another flat answer without missing a beat.

alisaie face twists indignantly, her nose wrinkling, and y’shtola chuckles with a fond shake of her head.

“and when i press too much, _i’m_ the one to be scolded for doing so! there is no winning with you lot, i swear.” despite her whine, alisaie nevertheless grins brightly and tiamat glances back around to return the expression in kind.

“tell you what,” the warrior offers as the trio moves towards the dressing room’s exit and out towards the springs. “i’ll let you pet it once, but only after i’m _sure_ your hands are clean. i won’t have any dirt and grease in my fur.”

this earns a full laugh from y’shtola, clearly in on the joke, while alisaie groans and rolls her eyes, but nevertheless makes a mental note to scrub under her nails.


	31. dissolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5.1 spoilers
> 
> angst

her emotions blaze in their intensity, white hot and utterly consuming. the depth of her passion, her love and her hate, is a self-fueling inferno only ever tempered down to a comforting, gentle simmer in her more rare, kinder moods. she was always the sun personified, bright and burning.

the rage she carries with her now is bitterly cold. the way she looks at g’raha with such harsh eyes, their shocking red contrasting against the blue walls framing her in crystal. her composure is brittle, stiff and forced with tremendous personal effort. he can see the tenseness across the plane of her shoulders and the way she struggles to keep her twitching hands at her sides, as though she herself is unsure in what manner she would prefer to lash out with them.

“you have a lot of nerve,” she breathes out after several seconds of horrible silence, her voice frigid and seizing his heart in a vice grip. he is captured, rendered defenseless, by her piercing stare, and something not unlike fear causes him to bristle all along his spine. his tail lashes instinctively as he struggles to breathe under the weight of her wrath.

“after everything that happened, everything i did, to even _suggest_ that killing yourself would be a viable solution. that it would even be _on the table_.” she faces him squarely and the portal’s light gleams against her irises. “the sheer _audacity_ you have to speak those words to me.”

g’raha steels himself, readily weaponizing too many decades of diplomatic experience, and forces his breathing back under control. he had only ever witnessed such open hostility from his warrior once, when he had successfully managed to meet with her in a plane between worlds, not long after alisaie had been unfortunately called. he would be lying if he were to claim the animosity in her expression then didn’t haunt him, when she angled herself towards him and snarled through exposed fangs to _send her back._

“i do not wish to give my life, and even moreso i would refrain from causing you anymore pain than i already have.” as he speaks, g’raha watches her and gauges his tone with utmost caution. he walks on so very thin ice and bears no desire to see what lurks in the depths beneath it. “i will do what i must to ensure the scions are returned home safely, and will not resort to such measures unless all other options are exhausted. only should the worst come to pass.” 

he grips his staff tighter, feeling his frantic heartbeat rattling through the bone and crystal serving as his ribcage. 

tiamat hisses out an exhale, her glare faltering. “if you think for a single moment i would let you die, no matter what the situation may be, then you haven’t learned a single _godsdamned_ thing. i will _not_ let you go again. so _help_ me, g’raha tia, _i will not let you_.”

g’raha remains silent. he’s barely able to keep his features schooled while tiamat does the opposite, both of her ears ears pressing back and her hands reaching upwards to roughly clutch at her face. he has no words to soothe these hurts and they both know it, and he knows better than to stoke her anger any further with empty sentiments he has already given her overly plenty.

“the things i would do to keep you safe… you’ve no idea,” she warbles between her fingers, her fury suffocating under tides of despair which cause her to choke on her own words, “no more dying. no more, no more! _i won’t allow it_! i’ll do _whatever it takes_ to keep you safe. i’ll do _fucking_ _anything_.”

with the precarious tension more or less broken at the sound of her sobs, it’s quick work for g’raha to bridge the scant distance between them and pull her into his arms. wheezing out a cry, she collapses into him near instantly and clings onto wherever she can reach.

 _“i’ll do anything_ ,” tiamat repeats like a desperate mantra into his neck, her wavering voice muffled by fabric that threatens to rip under her claws.

 _as will i_ , g’raha doesn’t say, resting his hand gently at her upper back, holding her while she cries.


	32. tincture of vitality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so i hit 80 alc
> 
> gen, humor

“here, drink this.”

g’raha thinks he should be more surprised when that familiar, _terrible_ elixir is thrust unceremoniously into his face, and finds it somewhat sad that he feels only bitter resignation deep into his bones. he takes the dingy-colored flask automatically and then looks over at his warrior, betrayal in his eyes and in the way his ears pin to his head, while the traitor in question stands dressed in a rather elegant craftsman gown.

“oh, don’t give me that, just drink it. it’s _probably_ not poison.”

he knows for absolute certain he’s twisted, then, when such dark humor manages to _reassure_ him, when to literally anyone more properly adjusted– it should do anything but. tiamat would not dabble in such unfavorable brands of jest were she not confident about the matter at hand. or, at least g’raha hopes so. she could be unpredictable at times.

“i made this special _just_ for you, and you’re going to stand there staring at it? having some regrets in life making you wonder what lead up to me joining in the flock seeing to your health? looking for answers at the bottom of a bottle?”

… he’s overthinking it, as he does. “ah, apologies, my friend.”

tiamat narrows her eyes at him and crosses her arms expectantly. he shoots her one last queer look before bringing the concoction closer, but pauses mid-motion when he catches a tangy, and not entirely unpleasant scent rather than the putrid herbal mix he’s accustomed to choking down. pointedly ignoring the grin slowly crossing his _dear friend’s_ face, g’raha sniffs the potion, smells something distinctly citrus, and fluffs up in surprised delight.

“this is–” he starts, unable to hide a smile even as tiamat lets out a wholly undignified _whoop_ and momentarily startles his train of thought into a shrieking halt. “if this is what i think it is, i daresay you may have all of spagyrics begging for your assistance with making their medicinal products more tolerable.”

tiamat makes a small noise of rejection and g’raha downs the bottle, his ears wiggling in both joy and relief at the significantly reduced, acrid taste. _flavored_ wouldn’t be the right word for it, as such an addition was too tricky to balance with the medicine and as a result tended to be shelved, but it was damned close.

“i’m a _master_ _alchemist_. fiddling with plants and more plants and some weird gelatin wasn’t that difficult of an endeavor. plus, i have _two entire worlds_ filled with their own unique materials to work with, with a remarkable variety on the first too, for all my doubts based on the severely limited ecosystem.” she takes the flask back when he offers it and playfully tosses it from one gloved hand to the other. “but due to my changes and it being still in the experimental phase, it’s less potent than the regularly produced version. it won’t be a good substitute for it until i can work the interactions of the ingredients out better.”

“i have total confidence you will succeed in this trial.” g’raha tells her seriously.

“you’re only saying that because you have to drink these more than anyone else here,” she replies dully, and all he can do is shrug a little, because she is entirely correct.


	33. the joy of gift giving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shenanigans
> 
> gen

no allag. no crystal tower. no anything related to that mess. as selfish and long-lasting as physically possible and then some.

with the ground rules for her potential gift set, tiamat begins to brainstorm.

while g'raha, the poor reckless selfish fool, takes great issue with doing absolutely anything for himself ever, up to and including basic healthcare, tiamat has no such qualms. she’s going to give him the single most selfish material thing she can possibly put together with her own hands. something so undeniably, unmistakably _her_ that it’ll send him reeling for another century in shock alone. actually no nevermind scratch that–

the most obvious answer would be herself, but tiamat has already planned a special surprise for the first’s first heavensturn and its crystal princeling and she is not overly fond of repeat holiday dalliances. jewelry, on the other hand, is deceptively simple and remains her master craft moreso than hookups. 

deliberately ignoring the idea of a ring to avoid a definite, awkward misunderstanding (the matter of which she is not mentally sound enough to revisit yet), she also tosses out necklaces as a candidate simply because it would stand out too much against his bare neckline. this gift of selfishness was not meant to be openly shared with anyone within viewing distance. it was for g'raha and he alone.

crystal is the best conductor of aether and he has an entire arm of it. from then it’s easy to put the rest of the puzzle together into something substantial. she rarely ever got to make bracelets that weren’t leather or wooden, so twisting delicate chains into shape would be a refreshing challenge.

the metal itself shouldn’t stand out too severely. a pale gold will do the trick. but rose gold won’t do– it’s far too soft and more for aesthetic than purpose– titanbronze is sturdy and deep enough in shade but it runs the risk of rusting over time–

rubies would be too predictable. carnelian. triplite, agate, as hilarious as tiger’s eye would be absolutely not–

she settles with a mostly colorless, shimmery precious stone. then it proceeds to decide its color for her based on the aether she imbues into it over the course of her adventures, and never in her long painful life has tiamat been more aggravated to have aether the color of _fucking crystal._ (it settles into the hue of a calm open sky, and remembering the wistful look in the exarch’s face as he waxed poetic about his desire to journey with her… crystal blue it is.)

her aether will fade over time, and she is unwilling to let that slide. the conductor needs to be stronger than metal and gemstone and aethersand alone. it needs to have a true piece of herself built into it as well, something that will carry her very essence with his every waking breath.

well, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, tiamat decides glibly and pricks her finger with a thoroughly cleansed needle. she places the opening of an adorably small bottle to the site as it wells up with blood, and waits.

she’s fairly certain this ink would get her kicked from the alchemists guild, despite the guildmaster himself having literally committed the profane art of necromancy with an audience. some people were just _so touchy_ about the use of blood in magic. voidsent and daemons and darkness and all those party killers. at the very least she could say for certain there was nothing inherently magic about this, only pure, selfish science. (she destroys the leftover ink and removes any hint of evidence of its existence, just in case)

the finishing touch sees tiamat keeping the bracelet in her breast pocket and going out and nearly dying repeatedly. which is to say, she is out doing her hydaelyn-mandated duty of slaying primals and being involved in petty wars she has zero place in. the residual power will further imbue the metal and blood-ink engravings with her soul in all its various forms, and she begins to second-guess herself on intentionally not causing g'raha a century’s worth of speechless stun.

this gift may actually kill him. maybe she should switch the steamy heavensturn surprise with this one, just in case.


	34. rose gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> backstory sadstory
> 
> angst like haurchefant

goldsmithing is far more intricate and unrelated to jewelry than its reputation proceeds. while on the surface such a thing is obvious, the deeper one goes into the craft only further showcases the technical prowess goldsmiths practice regularly to create such marvels. mammets, orchestrion, lamps and lighting systems for housing, aether-conductive weaponry for mages... all merely part of the trade.

tiamat finds herself back to novice work making jewelry, more often than not. these creations are easy to both produce and purchase, and serve sufficiently as her main source of income. though the very rare orders for custom mammets or a music box would earn her a very lucrative commission, those who could afford such a thing to begin with were few in number. it was the simple silver bands and chains that sold aplenty, intended as gifts for for whatever occasion, between family or friends or lovers.

_the ring fits perfectly. she stares dumbly at her hand with burning eyes._

_“i’m sorry i have stupid claw fingers,” she blurts through the emotion clogging up her throat._

_haurchefant laughs warmly and takes her hands in his. she’s visibly trembling._

_“i’ll not hear such unkind words about my intended!” he declares, bringing her hands closer to press a kiss to her knuckles. when she begins to sob in earnest, haurchefant reaches out to gently brush away her tears and adds: “come now, love, there’s no need for tears. this is meant to be a happy occasion.”_

_oh, she was happy. she was so, so happy. if only she could have said so when time remained on their side._

tiamat doesn’t wear rings, or most accessories, due to them being a potential hazard and weak point during a fight-- as well as something precious she is not willing to lose. her house fortemps earrings are the only exception to this rule, and she'll never be seen in public without. should they be ripped from her ears entirely amidst the heat of battle was a non-issue, as she’d merely find a new pair and continue to wear them in a different spot, with ear to spare.

even if she lacked the heart to ever feel the weight of a ring on her finger again, this simple, superficial connection to her ishgardian family would remain. even if she never had the chance to take their name, _his_ name, in writing, this wordless tribute would be enough.


	35. roleswap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> romantic angst

she calls him “boy” and “kid” and absolutely worst of all “ _son_ ,” and each fond petname she dubs g’raha with only drives the already very impressive wedge between them ever deeper.

it had only been a few years for him, since the warrior and his friend and _maybe something else_ had disappeared. merely years on his end, where all he could manage was continued research of allag and the tower and how it all tied into _her_ fate as opposed to his tangible blood connection. why it had plucked her from his life and future instead of revealing unto him the secrets he dedicated his entire life searching for.

over a century she had lived (and evidently thrived) in another world. rallying the surviving members of the shard and ushering them under her wing, building an entire community from the ground up over the course of generations she would easily live long past. the grey streaks in her hair, slight wrinkles and laugh lines betray her advancing age, but overall the warrior hardly seems to be the old woman she likes to jokingly paint herself as. to viera, viis, she is an older adult. to g’raha, she is impossibly far away, wholly unreachable, in so many different ways, and it breaks his heart.

and it’s _so much worse_ with how casually familial she is with her people, her “kids” (her words, though she was never able to have a family of her own), and him, with practiced grace and polite amounts of distance. he sees the maternal love in her eyes when she engages the gaggles of children with their mischief, ruffling their hair and ears and delighting in their squawks of protest, laughing when they bat her hands away.

she often puts her hand on _his_ head and strokes his hair and ears in such a perfect touch, that in another life and time would have ignited him with a sort of passion saved for romantic dramas, but now only coolly smothers the remaining embers of hope crumbling within his chest. 

she loves g’raha as fiercely as she does them, but it’s neither the same feeling they had kindled during their time in noah, nor is it wanted in the wake of this shattered dream. and it hurts him more than he can put into words alone.

“i’m sorry,” she would later murmur to him, her hand rubbing gentle circles against his back while they embrace. he trembles with ugly sobs against the fabric of her robes, feeling more like a desperate child than ever. “i wish it were different, but unfortunately such a future was never meant for those like us. this has ever been a tale of tragedy, after all.”

g’raha grits his teeth and shakes his head. he knows. he _knows_ , and he hates it all the same. even were they allowed to live in tandem on the source, their mere _races_ would prevent the sort of future he so badly wanted to share with her, much less how their roles would keep them eternally apart. the warrior was on a level all her own, her stars lighting the night sky just as brightly as they had done after banishing the first lightwarden, and not even in his best attempt would he ever be able to reach her.

“but, still, raha–” she adds, cutting off when he flinches at her use of his name. she had intentionally avoided speaking it in a vain attempt to keep the professional distance between them, but surely she knew it would be for naught. “raha. just know that no matter where you are or what you get into, you’ll always be welcome here. i will _always_ be your friend and i will be there for you the _moment_ you ask.”

she takes a step back to put her hands on his shoulders, directly meeting his teary gaze. g’raha looks at her, really looks, and sees the girl he had befriended and lost in the uneven upturn of her lips, the playful glint in her eye. even if experience and wisdom had dampened that energy somewhat, it still remained within her.

“i’ll be here for a while yet, and my memory serves me well enough to remind me of that time during the expedition. i remember you and noah and every terrible little thing we got into. i remember every bit of it.”

his tears start again in earnest and she instinctively moves to wipe them away, but just as quickly withdraws her hand and allows it to rest at her side. the other squeezes g’raha’s shoulder lightly in what she hopes is enough comfort without further tarnishing his pride.

“and i remember you wanting so badly to go on adventures with me. while my current position tends to take up most of my free time, there are few things i’d enjoy more than taking you along to see these sights i’ve come to consider as home.”

oh, the words he both wants to hear and doesn’t, more than anything else.

g’raha speaks without much thought: “i will hold you to that, my friend.” his voice is wobbly, but firm. “there is much i wish to see here and i wouldn’t dream of turning down such an offer from the _esteemed exarch_.”

she bursts into laughter, ringing and genuine, to the point where he easily finds himself grinning at her joy and feels it flood his own chest in earnest.

“of course. i wouldn’t _dare_ deny my most cherished friend, my _dear prince of allag_.”

he sputters, his face reddening with embarrassment and tail lashing behind him at the endearment. she continues to laugh and for the first time in so many moons, standing together in this unfair and bittersweet future, g’raha at last feels the distance between them close.


	36. bête noire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: injuries, body image issues
> 
> gen, light angst

“insubordination,” lyna had called it. truthfully tiamat isn’t entirely sure what to do with that information, since these aren’t her troops and she has no formal ranking in their military. if anything, she’s a vagabond nobody who happens to be close to their leader and is excellent at killing sin eaters and the light in general. she’s… she _would_ be just another soldier, were things only a little different in life. such a claim would be impossible to assert now, and she’s grimly aware of that fact.

nevertheless, she’s immensely uncomfortable standing by lyna, who is always so squared and composed and everything she isn’t, and looks blankly at the small collection of guards gathered before them. tiamat can feel the tension in the air and doesn’t miss the agitated twitching of her fellow viera’s ears. she struggles to keep her own from flattening and ruining her phony coolness.

“should you have _words of concern_ for the warrior of darkness, i highly suggest you bring them to her yourselves,” lyna commands, folding her arms behind her back. 

is that what constitutes as insubordination these days? she wonders. gossip about her? were a bunch of haughty soldiers questioning her choice of attire again? had they seen her doing something silly?

heat courses through her chest and tiamat momentarily forgets her apprehension, dredging up a familiar rage from down deep where she had buried it. _had they seen her with raha?_

the elven man in front works his jaw, looking at his captain, then at the warrior, then at the ground. he is wise to not speak immediately, not while tiamat barely has control over her emotions at a mere possibility instead of truth.

she breathes deep. kind words at her ear and hands at her back. she is so much more than her reactionary impulses.

“speak freely,” tiamat says in a voice far gentler than she expected to hear from herself, given the circumstances. even he looks surprised, mouth gaping uselessly while he fumbles over his words. he must feel bad.

“it’s– it’s just that–” he tries, his eyebrows furrowing and gloved hands vaguely gesturing forward at her in jerky, sharp movements. “we’ve been trainin’ _our whole lives_ to fight, and ‘ave killed and _been killed_ by the damned eaters, but…”

he seems to gain his courage and aggressively motions at tiamat with one broad sweep of his arm. she only blinks and vaguely admires his spine to address her in such a way, whereas lyna looks ready to make him regret ever existing. like guardian like ward, she thinks glibly.

“then _she_ comes along, out of nowhere, and does _everything_ we couldn’– does everything we trained so bleedin’ hard for and comes out _without a damned scratch,_ and we’re supposed to just…”

sad realization floods and drowns her anger instantly. tiamat doesn’t try to stop the way her ears droop to reflect her change of mood, which only further causes lyna to bristle in misguided, but touching, offense.

“we fight and die and lose _so much_ , and she can just walk around like nothin’ ever happened! it’s… it’s not fair.” to his credit, the man’s own despair catches up with him by the end of his rant, and he fights against tears threatening to spill over, his eyes bloodshot. he momentarily bares his teeth in a grimace that’s just as wounded as it is angered.

lyna’s expression becomes utterly dark. “that’s–”

“he’s right.”

the silence is all consuming, deafening, when every pair of eyes turn to her. tiamat stands there, just a helpless in a new situation as ever, and can only muster up bittersweet sympathy from her own aching heart. she remembers lyna’s breakdown at ostall, as well as her own bitter words, her mantra, while she was broken and beaten and forced to lick her wounds and fight time and time again. none of it was fair. none of her suffering was fair, while everyone else could–

“it isn’t fair how you fight and die. it isn’t fair how only i can finish these wars, how only i can survive such horrific circumstances while everyone around me falls. none of it has ever been fair.”

she sinks into a blissful apathy and stares at the grass. wears her infamous stoic facade once more. “i get to watch everyone i love die while only i survive to see the aftermath. such things do not leave me without scars, in any sense of the word.”

her gaze lifts and she regards him indifferently, as she does with anyone who is also intimate with the hardships of war and senseless bloodshed. he must see something profound in her at that moment, but tiamat feels nothing for his wide-eyed reaction.

“it’s fake. my appearance, my bravado. it’s all fake; glamour i wear as a shield to protect me _off_ the battlefield, where i must try to pretend as though i’m not harrowed by the path of the dead i walk.”

testing her bravery, tiamat entirely drops her glamour and then forces herself to not falter at the resounding gasps of horror she receives. lyna stares down at her, stricken, and guilt bubbles up to eat away at her insides just the same as it did when she finally confessed to the scions of her state. she hated their looks then as well, as they took in her every jagged piece.

“this is what it means to survive and win when no one else does.” she lifts her magitek arm and curls its mechanical fingers into a loose fist. she tries very hard to ignore their pale faces. “this is what it looks like to be the only one who can win against an impossible foe. i am not allowed to stop. i am not allowed to _die_. whatever my injuries or losses, there is no one else to carry on in my place. so i will continue in spite of it all.”

lowering her arm, tiamat closes her eyes and tilts her head back. the sun feels impossibly warm against what parts of her still have their senses of touch, and it soothes her minutely.

“so no, it isn’t fair that i make it out as i do, when nobody else does. and i’ve never had a choice in the matter.”

they continue to stare. this is her breaking point. tiamat nods curtly at lyna and doesn’t wait for a response, quickly spinning around and outright fleeing the area at a near jog, total quiet at her back. she wants to hide behind her mummer’s craft and never be seen. she doesn’t want them to see.

the warrior finds a small alcove in the midst of dilapidated, weathered ruins, and curls up tightly in a shaded corner. the stone is cold and scrapes harshly into her spoken shoulder, but the mild pain grounds her enough to keep her there for the rest of the afternoon. no one searches for her.


	37. those who protect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: depictions of mental health issues, trauma via war, injury
> 
> angst, h/c

the ascian lackeys find tiamat on the first, eventually, because of course they do. 

that said, this one’s attempts at harming her are naught but suicidal recklessness, and she is quick to catch onto his game of mutually assured destruction. he intentionally baits her along towards the coast and within range of the few, small towns dotted around kholusia. with her every effort, tiamat forces the direction of his assault to the sides and positions zodiark’s sad little servant to harm only wastelands and rock formations, giving the people time to evacuate (or at least get distance, at least get enough away for her to not need to hold back out of fear of crossfire).

“always the hero,” he calls to her cheerily, flinging bolts of vile magic from his clawed fingertips. “and for such a pointless endeavor as protecting these fragile, worthless beings. they exist only to be squashed by the strong, thrown to slaughter, in their self-made wars. to be cut down en mass by the warrior of light herself, if only because she chose the opposite side as them.”

tiamat’s barrier stands strong, deflecting the attacks with ease.

_–for we who are born into this merciless, meaningless world, have but one candle of life to burn–_

this sudden thought punctuated by a horrible, familiar voice, brings intense nausea to the forefront of her attention, causing her to grimace. a cold sweat starts at the nape of her neck and she begins to feel the telltale sensation of her limbs losing strength just as her mind does. her ears press back low in distress, and tiamat manages to just barely shake the sickness off in time to smack away a chain of magic, which in turn arcs explosively into the pathways below and splinters the wooden walls of nearby village homes into wreckage.

her blood becomes ice and the ascian laughs. hatefully, spitefully.

“and you cannot even protect them from _yourself!_ oh, how fate must be so cruel to these mortals to enlist the aid of a harbinger of death. i can only dare to dream of how many times you must have massacred those around you, friend and foe alike, as you toiled away for the _good of the realm._ ”

he gathers a sphere of crackling energy and flings it at her. it strikes her weakened barrier and shatters it entirely.

“to think these fools saving you would only bring them further devastation.”

tiamat doesn’t respond, doesn’t think. cannot. the world spins out of focus into shrieking static and she smells and tastes blood. she wades in it as it floods around her, catching her legs and arms in its weight, heavy and sweet. her path is not lined with bones, but corpses, still fresh and staring up at her with eyes devoid of soul. 

blood stains her in places too deep to ever be clean again and a bright crimson lines the footprints she leaves with her every step. the hands that try for her ankles, try to impede her progress, she slices off thoughtlessly with an easy swing of her weapon. death is silent and warm as she never gives them the chance to scream for help and leaves before anyone knows they’ve perished by her hand and long before the bodies cool.

esteem _roars_ from the depths, awakening in a fury, and thrashes against the riptide of her psychosis as tiamat drowns.

they do not breach the threshold of their consciousness in time to renew her guard, and the ascian’s next attack hits her at full force. it slams her into the ground, very nearly burying her under stone and clay from the force of impact alone.

esteem bears this burden, as they always have for all things, but can no longer move to defend their body. they struggle against shattered bone and fluid in their lungs, only just able to move their head enough to glare at the bastard floating nearby, laughing at their broken state.

helplessness and rage are intimate friends of theirs by this point, but these feelings will provide no comfort as they lie there awaiting a slow death. against their will, esteem’s eyes slip closed, a desperate prayer unable to be spoken as it rests trapped in their throat.

a shriek. aether like thunderstorms, petrichor. 

“i have you.”

tears gather in the edges of esteem’s eyes when they see a blur of red, black, and gold, and a foolish grin spreads across their face. they would surely laugh if they could breathe.

despite the sheer distance from the tower significantly waning his strength, this ascian stands no chance of surviving the wrath of the crystal exarch– the immortal and obscenely powerful bulwark of the ancients, and he who loves the warrior more than any other.

he doesn’t hold back with his following strike, but esteem is too near death to appreciate the brutality of it, and can only imagine what the ascian looks like as g’raha vaporizes him. maybe next time.

healing magic surges from their core and outward, energizing them enough to allow a lurching twist at the waist, where they curl inward and vomit blood and bile into the dirt. they wheeze through their newly opened airway, coughing and spitting for several seconds while g’raha continues to administer what aid he can.

“you–”

“ _i’m sorry,_ ” esteem gasps, able to meet his eyes once they are certain their spine is more or less intact enough to move further.

alarm tears open g’raha’s expression, as he no doubt sees the difference in color of their irises compared to his warrior. it is tempered quickly, however, and his gaze softens. esteem won’t deny that the change of attitude he possesses towards them is… welcome.

“i couldn’t protect her,” they continue, gritting their teeth and hissing when the exarch tests the severity of their internal injuries, even as gently as he can. “i was _too late_.”

_a knight lives to serve and–_

tiamat buckled under her trauma and esteem could not be there to shield her when she needed them most–

“i have no doubt that you did everything you could,” g’raha says quietly, his voice a balm against esteem’s blistering loathing. “even now, you are protecting her, where i could not. and for that… you have my eternal gratitude.”

to their chagrin, esteem can’t hate the crystal princeling. despite their best efforts to separate such feelings between themselves and the warrior, they spend the vast majority of their time as one individual. just as tiamat loves him, deeply, viscerally, painfully, so do they.

… and on the other hand, just as g’raha loves her so endlessly and unconditionally, so does esteem.

in all honesty, they are unsure how the exarch feels about them. he seems to understand the reasons for their existence, as well as the implications it presents, but at worst only regarded them with reasonable caution during the brief periods of communication they were offered. not even their caustic remarks and terrible sense of humor pushed him away, and theirs and tiamat’s weak, pitiful little heart only became more and more endeared to him, no matter who held onto it at the time.

esteem exists to protect her and protect themselves. they will always choose her safety and happiness over all else. they possess no delusions of grandeur about their identity or purpose, and are at peace with that.

g’raha’s spoken hand reaches over to gingerly cup their jaw. within seconds, the blissfully warm numbness of his healing magic soaks deep into their injuries there and earns him a tired, but content, sigh.

regardless of whether or not their emotions, their selves, would weave together and become ultimately indistinguishable over time, esteem would continue as they were. accepting this kindness, this love, in tiamat’s stead would be a task dutifully fulfilled as any other. they would not waste any energy questioning if the tender warmth blooming within the confines of their heart was hers, or theirs. the outcome would be the same either way.


	38. burdens and carrying them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> based on the text prompt: “Hey!! What was that for?!”
> 
> uhh. angst? gen? idk

thancred has been in many altercations, many fights. he’s been slapped and struck and sometimes bodily thrown, and none of these including actual life or death battles that have been too frequent in the last few years.

he has, however, never been punched by the warrior of light. a new notch in the post.

tiamat hits _hard_ , even with her still flesh and blood, non-dominant hand, and thancred stumbles backwards when his balance is easily tossed aside. he clutches the side of his face and grimaces up at her.

“tch– what was that for?!” he snarls, the effort to shout causing him additional pain, though his jaw seems blessedly intact.

she stands there and stares at him with a faux calm expression, her eyes cold. as the seconds tick by with no answer, thancred sees malice slowly twist her brows and nose, and she all but _lunges_ for him, stopping short just a yalm away.

“she is _not_ an outlet for your grief,” tiamat begins, a dangerous undercurrent simmering in her voice that has thancred’s every alarm bell ringing incessantly. “she is _a child_ , and looks to you for guidance, for _support_.”

“that doesn’t concern you.” he stands up taller, his hand dropping from his face, and feeling every bit antagonized if only for the way tiamat speaks to him as though he were a monster and not a comrade in arms.

“it didn’t before, but it does now,” she answers smoothly, “she’s not the only one of us to be forced into a horrible position due to birthright. just as _minfilia_ was, i’m–”

thancred feels something in his chest, something aching and ugly, give way, and he _snaps_.

“don’t you _dare_ speak of her as though you understand!”

he blinks, and then he is at tiamat’s eye level. it takes him another fraction of a second to notice his feet no longer touch solid ground, and then painfully longer for both of his hands to reach to his front and curl over the fists gripping him, suspending him as though he weighed nothing.

tiamat holds him there with sheer strength alone, her claws buried ferociously into his coat and gear, and thancred is certain he has never felt more vulnerable and useless in his entire life. he makes the mistake of meeting her eyes, and feels as though he’s willingly offered his head into a dragon’s maw.

“do not dare speak to me of what i understand,” she breathes, harsh and cold. “of what it means to love and lose. to be chosen and to suffer a fate no one else could imagine.” 

the leather of his vest strains as tiamat digs into it hard enough for him to feel the outline of her knuckles against his chest. his heart hammers away in a panic, a bird with clipped wings, trapped and caged.

he is _afraid_ , and this revelation throws thancred into a downward spiral. he is _afraid of her_ ; this woman who had once been his friend to share drinks and terrible stories of their conquests with. he had never known what it meant to make an enemy of her, and what it meant to have the warrior of light’s fangs bared to his throat. to see her ire, her hatred, and comprehend the fury that drives her into one righteous battle after the next, regardless of her feelings of the matter and regardless of how wounded she becomes as she goes.

it was so easy to forget, in the wake of his mourning for the scions’ master, and the resulting and persistent overwork that lead him to ruin. tiamat went out of her way to snatch him from of the the claws of darkness that so viciously clung to him, then, if only because she knew how desperate the scions, how desperate _minfilia_ , had been to save him.

he was so… self-centered.

his boots slam into the ground as tiamat drops him, the warrior spinning around and storming off. thancred stands frozen in place where she left him, and continues to do so for minutes after she teleports from the area. the speed of his pulse does not slow.

he thinks of minfilia standing before their audience in the waking sands, a girl forced to grow up too soon and take on a role she wasn’t fit for. she had tried so very hard to do her best for them, no matter the consequences she bore.

… he thinks of minfilia, the first’s minfilia, and how genuinely she had beamed at tiamat with open joy, while the woman taught her how to weave flower crowns alongside a small collective of curious pixies. how such scarred and bloody hands handled the fragile stalks with ease of practice, and how she braided and tied the girl’s hair to compliment each colorful array. the gentle warmth of the warrior’s smile.

minfilia would never know that tiamat had only just been to war, and still carried years upon years of trauma with her every waking breath. she was yet a child who looked to tiamat for guidance, as both an adult as a profound combatant the scions respected, and with her found _a friend_ and more support than minfilia would ever know what to do with.

thancred closes his eyes, thoroughly sobered. all this time and he has learned nothing, and yet he must continue to move as they do, as she does.

“i am sorry, minfilia,” he says quietly to no one, attempting to imagine what tiamat must have felt when she was forced to leave them all behind in the wake of ul’dah. to leave _minfilia_ to her demise if only because she asked it of her, from one of hydaelyn’s chosen to another.

“i will become worthy of you yet, i swear it.”


	39. little mess never hurt anyone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from the text prompt: “You’re getting crumbs all over my bed.”
> 
> humor, fluff

when g’raha voices his mild-mannered complaint, tiamat merely gives him a flat look and continues to nibble on a biscuit for an entirely too long period of time before eventually choosing to respond.

“you speak as though you use this bed.” at the very least, she doesn’t talk with her mouth full. small victories, g’raha thinks in exasperation and amusement both.

“‘tis the principle of the thing,” he says with a small shake of his head, striding over to his bed ( _their_ bed, he realizes excitedly). “and i cannot say i would be inclined to use it knowing there’s crumbs everywhere.” 

he gestures to said crumbs even as tiamat chews her food. she looks down at them, then back at g’raha, and then holds the biscuit between her teeth and brushes the crumbs away with quick sweeps of her hand.

“… now there are crumbs all over the floor.”

tiamat snorts in laughter at his overly serious tone as she finishes her snack. “but are you going to sleep on the floor? because i won’t. i’ll be in this bed, crumbs or no, so you’re free to take your pick.”

“a hard bargain as usual,” he hums with feigned contemplation, “i suppose i will have to settle with sharing a bed with my dearest love, all of her messes included.”

“oh, attempting to _charm me_ , are you?” she waggles her eyebrows a little and g’raha takes her by the chin to pull her in for a soft kiss, which she sighs into, utterly pleased.

“i need not do such a thing,” he says lowly against her lips, “as you seem to already be in my bed.”

tiamat outright cackles and snags him by his robes, yanking him into the mess of blankets along with her.


	40. to heal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it is time
> 
> hurt/comfort, light angst, haurchefant

“should this end up being too strange or uncomfortable, i would not be offended were you to decide to leave it be. i will close the room and we need not discuss it further.”

tiamat only hums a little in thought as her footsteps become less and less echoing, hers and g'raha’s pace unhurried yet anxious. she had never been into these storerooms before, and was far too interested in what he had deemed worthy of collecting after the calamity that tore their world asunder, much to g'raha’s embarrassment (which only added fuel to her desire to _know_ ).

“i’m morbidly curious about what you kept of mine,” tiamat answers with mild humor, “or, i suppose, of _hers_ , since _i_ have everything of mine at home on the source, still.”

_(“i am not your warrior of light,” she had said to him in a moment of anger, when g'raha had once again attempted to forfeit his claim to be involved in her life, in favor of the slumbering young man still within the crystal tower. “and for every instance where you attempt to pull the same rhetoric on me, i will remind you of this. unless you intend to force this divide of your own making to be mutual, this train of thought is over.”)_

g'raha’s ears tip back, which is his only open sign of his discomfort by her words. this would be a dragon he has no intention of poking.

“it may be jarring,” he begins instead, treading onto a new topic, “to see the state of one’s own belongings in disrepair from centuries without any sort of proper care. i merely advise caution in this case, out of… concern, for your emotional well being.” his voice softens and tiamat bites back an annoyed sigh, because he is right in every way. she’s pushing it with this venture and they both know it, but by the gods from his warning alone does she even moreso _need to know_ what of hers he’s kept all these years.

g'raha guides her through a modest room lined with boxes, dusty shelves, and equally dusty piles of tomes and scrolls, and it’s incredibly underwhelming to what she had envisioned. she decides to not say as much, remembering his advice, and assuming the most painful mementos were simply stored out of immediate sight.

tiamat only realizes she’s let her mind wander when g'raha suddenly offers to her a fairly inconspicuous, wooden box. she takes it mindlessly, blinking dumbly to restore her attention to the current time and place, and reaches for the latch. she does pause for a moment once it clicks open with a gross, metallic noise, looking briefly over to g'raha for… something she does not know. he only regards her gently, though she sees the little smirk of his lips and a weight she didn’t notice on her shoulders suddenly drops all at once. filled with new resolve, she only winces a little at the again-gross creak of the hinge fighting against her.

the box is full of jewelry, and upon first glance tiamat barks out a laugh. it’s a complete mess of failed products and incomplete work, the metal poorly handled and smoothed and taken to rust after so long of not having been treated.

“oh, these are awful,” she says through a laugh, picking out an uneven, silver chain and looking it over. “must have come from when i was a barely mediocre goldsmith and spent most of the time practicing. i wasted _so_ much metal! it was humiliating having to show any of my work to my peers…” tiamat digs through the box and allows herself to drift in kind, innocent memories of desert heat and nearly screaming in frustration at her grinding wheel.

even g'raha manages a small, but rueful laugh.

“i must confess my reluctance to show you these, made all the more justified by your reaction just now. i simply couldn’t help it, knowing these were made by your hands… i would preserve all that i could find.” his voice dips into melancholy, his smile turning sad and strained.

“she and i both appreciate the gesture,” tiamat answers easily, “even if it means you see all of the terrible things that i am still embarrassed about having made at all. knowing how precious this is to you means a great deal, for what it’s worth.”

g'raha’s expression opens in surprise, momentarily vulnerable, but the warrior doesn’t capitalize on it while she’s so invested with discovering all the goods the sole box contains within.

she snags a ring with her index claw, feeling victorious in such a silly way about it, and drags it up to view in proper. the second she sees the familiar band, every part of her inside and outside seizes and crashes to total stillness. she does not hear g'raha saying her name repeatedly, with ever increasing worry, over the static in her ears and pounding of her heart. she can’t–

she can’t–

_you can._

tiamat inhales sharply and deeply, her eyes squeezing shut and then slowly reopening. she feels a loose grip on her elbow and focuses on that, the skin-to-skin contact just enough to ground her mentally. she forces herself to breathe out steadily. the ring burns cold in her palm.

“are you alright?” g'raha asks, stepping a little into her sight. tiamat exhales, ignoring how she trembles, and manages a stiff and uncertain nod. he doesn’t appear convinced, if the furrowing of his brows and pursed lips are any indication, but he nevertheless accepts her muted answer without further question, and relaxes back at her side. she can already hear what he would have said next, just as in any other case of her weakness: _say the word and we will leave. we can go back and you will never need to see or speak of any of this ever again._

_but is that what you want, tiamat?_

esteem’s presence nudges from within her consciousness, ever vigilant and prepared to take on her burdens.

_i will lock this heart of ours in ice so you may be numbed to such pain, so you will never need to confront it, but only if that is what you truly want._

in this sliver between time, tiamat holds esteem’s sentiments to her own, unconditional safety and security that she would have normally taken to in a heartbeat and positively _basked_ in. she was so good at running away from her problems, her emotions, and would have rather shut them all out than risk succumbing to them. to think about what could have been and what _should_ have been if only she were stronger, faster, better.

g'raha waits for her to be ready with unending patience. he honed such a skill over decades of hardship and battles he cast himself into for the sake of a future he did not intend to ever live to see with his own eyes. like her, he wears his trauma as a cloak, a shield, and hides within its shade when it is too much to embrace the reality of himself, of this world he resides in despite all else.

… is this what she wants? the crossroads lie ahead. she may continue in this loop for as long as she wishes and no one will stop her or blame her for it. she may stride into unbroken ground and they will be with her for every step. no matter which path she chooses for herself, they will be with her, always, because she is not alone and never has been. because above all else, _they love her._

and she loves them. she loved _him_ , _loves_ him with every bit of her self damaged and not, and was prepared to dive into unfamiliar and exhilaratingly new territory because of how deeply she felt for him. he was the reason for boundless joy in one of the darkest times of her life, and reignited a tender hope she so desperately needed kindled in the wake of heartbreak and betrayal. he fought for her, _died_ for her, and even though she will carry the despair of his passing until her final breath, she will _never_ forget the kindness of his smile and will never _choose_ to forget these memories of him she holds so dearly, even if it means knowing the pain as well. the warmth of his hands on hers, and the sound of his laugh when they shared truly awful jokes during a blizzard that held them hostage within the walls dragonhead, to her secret delight.

the tears streaking down her cheeks are happy ones, tiamat thinks, and she looks once again down at her handcrafted ring, smiling at it and all it represents. her chest aches, the wound forever in the process of healing, and it is filled with warmth even still.

g'raha, understandably, is confused by her sudden turn of behavior, but tiamat very much notices the hesitant gleam of happiness and pride in his crimson gaze. he wants her so badly to be at peace when he cannot mend her hurts, and will support her in every effort, and she knows without a doubt in her mind that haurchefant would have been so grateful to him for that and more.

“this is… this was my answer– to a question i was asked by someone who loved me very much.” tiamat offers out the ring when g'raha’s eyes widen in shock. 

she had never told anyone about her engagement, not ever, for all these years. not once had she ever mentioned their intention to marry, not even to any of his family or hers. not a single soul ever knew, and tiamat was content to let that knowledge pass with him, no matter her guilt informing her otherwise.

“you were,” g'raha mouths more than speaks. he cannot finish the sentence, she assumes, due to the realization of the tragedy slamming into him all at once. there would be a great deal of history he would need to re-evaluate at a later time, out of her audience and where he would be able to grieve for her properly.

tiamat smiles at him, and she knows it’s genuine this time. it is not forced or fake and she even feels esteem’s approval from the deep darkness, as for the first time in both their lives, they need not step into her body to shoulder her suffering.

she would never be able to recover if she kept on with that.

she places the ring back in its container and shuts the box with a sense of finality that severs an old chain from her. she breathes a little easier, stands a little taller. she thinks about haurchefant and feels pain and love both, but above all the memories of her late fiance fill her with _strength._

“as i said, she and i appreciate this,” tiamat says roughly, “and _i_ would very much like you to keep these in particular, even including all the bad ones i wish hadn’t been found. … i think he would be glad for it as well.”

g'raha doesn’t respond with spoken word, only pulls her into a tight embrace the moment she sets the box back into its spot. tiamat clings to him and weeps in full force, mourns the loss with all her being, until it utterly exhausts her. in the following silence, all she can focus on is the steady rhythm of her beloved’s heart and the feeling of his arms around her.


	41. barbed tongue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> non-canon to my personal story like this does not happen for good reason. a little alternative scene to the holm switch ending bit taking into consideration how bad off she was and how fucked she might react to things because of it.
> 
> hurt no comfort

the crystal exarch sits on his knee and pleads, _begs_ , for her help. just like every other leader tiamat’s ever known, he presents his case and makes it near impossible for her to reasonably refuse, being a renowned hero and all. 

… no, that isn’t necessarily true. he makes it _remarkably easy_ to refuse. the exarch is all but crushed under the weight of this responsibility he bears and longs to see his world saved, but he does not force his war onto her. he gives tiamat the option to reject him, to remove herself, when none other would take that kind of massive risk for themselves. even the rotten remains of her heart tug a forgotten rhythm if only by the way the harrowed ruler yields utterly to her– offers unto her the contents of his wounded heart and bows to her in deference. … for what little any of this matters when she is no longer physically on the source, and depends on this compassionate stranger guiding her steps.

tiamat listens to the sound of wind that did not exist until mere moments ago, across this decimated land she does not belong in.

“a king does not kneel for his knight,” she says, her voice as tired as she feels. the exarch’s jaw falls slack and he looks up at her, his shock plainly visible just as most of his expression isn’t. she can’t know what he sees in her, but _she_ sees the tension of his posture while he continues to stare at her, as though her worlds are truly unfathomable to him. is he always like this? feigning such frailty as though he does not carry the lives of countless within one hand? they would leap from whatever bridge the moment he asked.

“but i have my suspicions that you wouldn’t call either of us those things… no, you wouldn’t dare sully the image of me you keep so close, to refer to me as something underneath your authority.” tiamat feels the toxin build in her words and does nothing to stop it, nothing to be pleasant and play along in sweet, diplomatic silence as she always had. there was no point if he would stoop to _begging_ and this is a hypocrisy she will gladly indulge herself in. “so what is it, then, exarch? are you merely being humble to sway my decision? or are you genuine with your kind words, your naivety, and are blinded by hero worship in regards to someone you claim to have never met?”

it feels _good_ to speak like this. it feels wonderful to breathe out the poison that sat and stewed within the confines of her chest for so, so long as she remained isolated and broken on the source. she feels lighter with every passing second even while those around her, the twins being the only ones she truly considers as important, watch her with discomfort. they don’t understand and it’s better that they don’t, so they won’t be able to see the madness and loathing clouding her eyes.

“if you would ask me to fight for you, i don’t want to hear any of these sentiments. they’re worthless to me.” tiamat closes her eyes to stop herself from raking the exarch’s very appearance for answers he will not give willingly. she is a scavenger picking around bones in search for every little truth she can wring out of these users, these manipulators. “if i am to be your weapon, i expect you to use me properly. hesitation gets those around you killed, as you must well know by now.”

she looks pointedly away, only by seconds missing catching a glimpse of a phantom lurking just beyond the square. she cares not for the exarch’s reaction to what she’s told him, as her opinions do not matter in the grand scheme and they never will.

the sooner he would unleash her upon his enemies, the sooner she would be able to stop giving mind to these twisted feelings that continue to plague her.

tiamat has no way of seeing the heartbreak in his expression when she turns away.

the exarch inhales raggedly through clenched teeth, hot tears stinging in his eyes and coloring his cheeks. a small quiver touches his lips as he struggles to bite back shouts of denial at her claims of existing as a tool, of assurances that he truly sees her as he has said, because it is not his own sorrow he wallows in but _hers_. he grieves for this woman who has been beaten to the point of total despair, who dons her own hatred as armor in order to survive one tragedy after the next, who wields her misery as a blade and threatens all who venture too close.

the man buried deep down within the exarch wishes to reach out to her once more; to offer his unconditional support and gift her with every bit of kindness he can possibly grant within his own means. however, he knows he must maintain their distance, abandon his heart and his selfish wishes and push the both of them to the brink, if his plan is to reach fruition. he would sacrifice everything to save her from a ruined future, and that is the greatest act of love he will be able to give.

he will dream of a time where neither of them need wield any sort of weapon, where they may simply co-exist in a place of assured peace and safety.


	42. misspeak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "CT Raha accidentally says "love you" to the WoL instead of "goodnight" in camp  
> Optional WoL power move: says "love you too" and depletes all but 1 Raha hp"
> 
> i got u
> 
> fluff and light humor very soft

g'raha snorts and rolls his eyes in the vague direction of the warrior of light after she all but climbs over him to get to her utter mess of a bed (which consists mostly of loose quilts and rumpled clothes as opposed to anything proper for sleep). tiamat then proceeds to dig through it until she finds her prize, her tired eyes gleaming, and burrows into the thick blanket she’s pulled from the nest.

in all honesty, g’raha had worried a great deal over the ramifications of them sharing a tent at any given point, whether it be their respective roles or personalities or otherwise coming into question. that said, the ordeal was highly anticlimactic to his expectations, and g’raha found himself surprisingly comfortable sharing a space with this eccentric woman he was very pleased with being able to call his friend.

tiamat was easy to banter with, easy to talk and joke, but she wasn’t always tactless in that sense. in a world of stuffy, patronizing academics and highbrows in large wigs staring down their nose at him, g’raha finally felt sweet relief in the form of a colleague who was both exciting and just as prone to nonsense as he. he was relaxed with her, and it was so easy to forget her status as a renowned hero in that regard. 

“turn off the light if you’ve finished reading!” tiamat mutters from beneath her self-made, cozy prison. g’raha huffs out a laugh and obliges, snuffing the flame of the remaining lantern and plunging their tiny corner of the expedition into darkness.

“is that more to your liking? shall i make a special request for the tower to also dim its light as a precaution?” he asks her while settling into his much more reasonable cot. he hears tiamat giggle a little, the layers of cloth engulfing her shifting with barely audible sounds, and his ears wiggle joyfully against his pillow.

“yes, yes. you’re very clever. go to sleep, you ridiculous bookworm.”

g’raha’s lips quirk into a smile, but he doesn’t respond immediately, feeling so deeply content in this remarkably small and insignificant moment. his happiness suffuses him with blissful warmth, and from there it takes mere moments for a rumbling purr to begin within his chest, and he sighs through it. he holds no worry at the idea of tiamat’s potential teasing for his instinctual habit, as he knows she is fond of the sound and what it represents. that thought in of itself is encouraging, and with it his tail curls and taps out a steady rhythm against the sheet.

“of course, my friend,” he says while turning onto his side. he means to also wish her goodnight, as is his usual. perhaps he is merely tired, or lost in something deeper than he can put into words for the time being. still, it isn’t _goodnight_ he says. 

almost in a breath, an afterthought, g’raha tells her: “love you.”

it takes roughly a second for what he’s said to register, and then another for everything to crash around him and bury him within a mountain of utter humiliation and shame. he would very much like to suffocate within that rubble. cease to exist entirely. perhaps if he were to wish to every god hard enough, they would spirit him away and he would never have to speak to her or anyone ever again. 

g’raha has never hated himself more than now. he’s ruined it. he’s wholly, irreparably destroyed one of the best things that’s ever happened to him with a slip of the tongue in a moment of weakness. how pathetically foolish and idiotic of him, saying such things to the warrior of light, no matter how close they have gotten, _what she must think of him_ –

the sound of rustling and a small, neutral hum.

“love you, too,” tiamat responds easily as if it’s the most normal thing in the world, before resuming her attempt at slumber.

it’s all g’raha can do to lie there and stare into nothing. his heart pounds and his hands tremble, fingers sliding up to grip into his hair as if somehow the sensation would be enough to keep him grounded. he inhales deeply, as silently as he can manage, and exhales a long and definitely _not_ silent, shuddering noise. blessedly there is no comment from his companion. he is fully prepared to run screaming should she make any sort of joke at his expense, tease him in any way about his slip-up. laugh that she was only _playing along_ with his antics. but she doesn’t say a word and doesn’t seem to be intent on doing anything other than sleep, and he is none the worse for wear.

is this real? is he awake? the pain of his hair being pulled is certainly real enough.

he said– _she_ said–

 _oh_ , g’raha laments as his frazzled emotions stutter to a lukewarm calm. he is truly lost. he is _hopelessly_ lost in the depths of his own heart and he may never find his way back out. he may not even _want to_ anymore. not so long as he will rise in the morning and tiamat will be there and throw a pillow at him for having the nerve to wait until so late at night after exploring to tell her _he loves her_ –

his hands release his hair and clutch at his face instead. he’s lost and gone, embarrassed, out of his element, and he has never been more happy in his entire life. from the side, the person he’s accidentally fallen in love with makes a silly little noise in her sleep, and g’raha chokes on a laugh.


	43. 100 years' difference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw for strongly implied child abuse
> 
> angst, small romance, happy ending

she doesn’t seem to remember him at all, and that stings g’raha more than he’s willing to admit. 

it had only been one chance meeting nearly two decades ago, and far from the city-states of eorzea, but the fact remains that while he recognized her instantly (a lone dark-skinned viera among countless hyur and elezen being obvious non-withstanding), she saw nothing in him. she was friendly, of course, and delighted in making sure g’raha regretted ever testing her patience with the aethersand ordeal, but there was nothing more than that.

_“a shy one, are we?”_

_a young g’raha tia startles, every hair standing on end and ears fully upright in alarm. the adult kneeling before him laughs at his reaction, but not unkindly as he is far too used to hearing within his tribe. that said, he puffs up even further in embarrassment, his face screwing up into an intense pout. this earns him a smaller, equally bright chuckle.  
_

_“sorry, sorry, i didn’t mean to frighten you,” she adds in a peculiar accent that draws his full attention. she raises both hands in a placating gesture, one tall ear flicking forward and back idly, and she grins at him with sharp teeth. g’raha doesn’t understand these mixed messages in her body language, seeing both aggression and friendliness, but then he realizes that he has no idea_ what _this person is._

tiamat doesn’t wield a bow and makes not a single inclination that she knows anything about archery. she is a white mage, as a matter of fact, and one of the only practicing in the world, alongside the padjal of gridania. this achievement is beyond impressive, and g’raha _is_ impressed, and yet… well, he’s aware he’s being foolish for the disappointment he feels, but it twinges in his chest all the same. he tries to inspire something, _anything_ in her with his cheeky bragging about his marksman’s skill and none of it yields results besides a roll of her eyes or flippant remark.

he thinks he spots her with a _lance_ at times as well, but not frequent enough to mention. even if she doesn’t use a bow like he expected, he still wants to join her on their official expeditions into the tower. he _wants_ , so badly.

_“are you an adventurer?” g’raha blurts excitedly, tiny hands gripping into his shirt. he pretends he is not trembling with nerves, and naively believes he’s tricked her into falling for it. she smiles warmly at him and his heart races._

_“of sorts, yes. we are merely stopping for an errand and will be leaving shortly.”_

_she makes a displeased noise at the way his expression and shoulders and quite honestly all of him droop in sadness. he has so many questions and wants to know everything– wants to know of the outside world and what she is and where she’s come from– a bow rests against her back and a harp on her hip and he wants to know how skilled she is with both! he wants to hear her songs in that strange voice– he wants–_

_a hand rests on his head and ruffles his hair. g’raha squeaks and instinctively reaches to dislodge it, to remove the source of so many hurts from his person. he doesn’t notice the intensity of his reaction stemming from deep fear, but she does._

perhaps it is better that she never is able to remember him. g’raha doesn’t think he would survive the humiliation of tiamat teasing him about his boyhood, all the while he tumbles helplessly into love with her as the moons pass one by one. he is glad for the time they are able to spend together, no matter how painfully one-sided his feelings are.

she inspires him, truly, but not in the innocent way he had idolized the heroes of eld from the storybooks he hoarded as a child. she is strong and brave without equal, but she is also reckless and silly and cannot make a bed to save her life. she indulges him in his banter to the entire camp’s chagrin for how heated it becomes, and mends his broken arm with calm expertise after a particularly nasty fall on his end. she is a friend to him, an inspiration, but also…

g’raha begins to crave her touch. he lacks the courage to reach for it.

_her hands rest back on her knees and she shifts into a lazy crouch. g’raha peeks at her through the arms he uses to shield himself, finding her watching him gently, patiently in a way he’s never seen. in his young age, he knows not what to think about this passiveness. he doesn’t know anything about her besides that she’s an adventurer, which greatly interests him as it is, but she is unquestioningly kind and warm and everything he’s never–_

_“i fear i must leave now, dúllan mín. adventuring is quite busy work, you see.” she tilts her head a little, the corner of her lips quirking into another smile that is far too somber for his liking.  
_

_g’raha’s heart aches at the prospect of her leaving so soon, and he does his best to stand taller and more steadfast like the adults, though still not at her eye level. she is unreasonably tall, he thinks, and this is yet another question about her that he won’t have the time to ask.  
_

_she huffs a little in amusement at his facade, or the attempt he makes.  
_

_“give everyone a hard time, alright?” she asks of him while rising to her feet, utterly towering over g’raha. his neck almost hurts straining up to stare at her, wide-eyed and nearly gaping at her suggestion. it’s a far cry from what his tribe tells him to do near constantly. “do what you want to do, be what you want to be. just a little advice from an experienced adventurer, yeah? don’t let them get you down.”  
_

_she can’t leave yet, she_ can’t–

_“can–” g’raha tries, his voice weak and nearly shaking, “can i be–”_

_“whatever you want,” she says with such unflinching certainty that he has no choice but to fully trust in her. his lips purse and tears sting hot in his eyes.  
_

_“and!” the woman leans down, close enough to whisper to g’raha without being overheard, even by the sensitive ears of other miqo’te._

_“when you go off on your own, for adventures or learning or even simply escaping, be sure to ask around for ‘tia’ so i may find you more easily. it’s a big world and i am rather unpredictable, but i’ll be waiting.”  
_

g’raha hears her screaming when the doors close, sealing indefinitely behind him. this entirely justified fury of tiamat’s is the last time he’ll ever hear her voice, and it’s this thought which succeeds at breaking him. he collapses into shuddering sobs to the audience of crystal.

the utility of a bard suits her, but so does most everything else she takes up. g’raha thinks he may be somewhat biased in this regard.

“your staring is making me nervous!” tiamat whines to her harp as she fiddles with the fine tuning of the strings. the smell of freshly polished wood still hangs faintly in the air and a handful of soiled rags from that specific activity are tossed aside into a modest waste pile, no doubt also oiling the floor as well.

“sincerest apologies,” g’raha says definitely not sincerely from where he sits at the edge of their bed, his chin resting in his spoken hand. “i am merely enamored by the immeasurably skilled craftsman before me. i find myself unable to look away.”

she flings a rag in his direction and it flails in an awkward arc, landing comically short of him. a slow grin spreads across his face while tiamat pointedly ignores him, both ears canting back.

“fluster me all you like, raha, but i’ll be _very_ cross if i can’t manage to play anything because you’ve riled me up so much. all this courage _wasted_.” she plucks out one scale, then another, appearing satisfied at her work.

“that would not do, no. i have been waiting a fair amount of time to hear your playing, after all, and– if i may be honest, i am rather unwilling to wait any longer.” 

one more quick progression of notes. “that so?”

the exarch’s expression softens considerably, though she doesn’t catch it given her attention is placed elsewhere. he hums a little in affirmation, closing his eyes once tiamat begins the melody in proper. she is remarkably uncertain, borderline hesitant about the volume of her singing voice, and he cherishes it with all he has.


	44. studdy buddy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> modern au. this isn't even shb but i'm putting it here anyway.
> 
> humor, gen

“absolutely not,” tiamat says even still mid-motion of opening her front door. g’raha stands there, looking perfectly chipper and bright as if she hadn’t just rejected him instantly the moment she saw his face.

“i haven’t even said anything yet,” he responds glibly, his smile too adorable for her to risk letting her guard down. she has been jaded against such things in all her long years working with families and their hellion children. could not be trusted, the lot of them.

he’s wearing an alarmingly full backpack while also carrying stacks of books entirely too large and expensive to be exposed to the open air, and tiamat wonders briefly if his apparent love of arm day makes the heavy lifting any easier. she stares a little longer than is appropriate but makes no attempt to hide it, since she ultimately doesn’t give a shit.

“you show up at my house uninvited with apparently everything you own and i’m not supposed to think you want something out of me.” she shifts her weight to one side and crosses her arms, looking all the exasperated middle-aged woman she may or may not be. it’s hard for people to tell since it seems like there’s not a single godsdamned other viera in this country and nobody can bother to moogle anything online. 

she's outlived her coworker’s grandparents and is treated like a novice by the wrinkly members of the hospital staff, when in reality she outranks them by impossible margins. that was always fun to rub in their face, however, when they’d show up to attend her lectures after gloating about their invitation so brazenly like she would titter about under the weight of their grand expertise. fuck those guys.

“you think i live at the school?” g’raha counters with a small pout (still adorable, godsdammit, her one weakness) “this is just my study material. and krile’s, actually, since she has some older books on the subjects i need and i’m _way_ too broke to buy the current editions. it’s all the same anyway...”

krile! a talented med student and technically tiamat’s understudy at a local hospital branch. she’s clever and compassionate and a _damn_ good practitioner in her dual fields of biology and sociology, or, she _will_ be at any rate, and tiamat regards her with pride. 

wait.

“ _krile_ ,” tiamat hisses in betrayal, realization striking her like several knives all plunged into her back in rapid succession. a downright ides of march situation on her front doorstep instigated by a catboy foolish enough to play the middleman. “she gave you my address, didn’t she?”

g’raha stares blankly at her. “i didn’t say that.” _knew it!_

“whatever. doesn’t matter. i’m still not letting you hang around my damn house for no good reason.” she dismissively waves a clawed hand and the stray briefly tracks the sweeping movements of her sharp fingers. “i have my own work to get done and i don’t feel like babysitting.”

“i’m _twenty-four_!” g’raha cries indignantly, his tail lashing once behind him in anger. and yet even despite his outburst, the books cradled in his arms do not so much as budge. they _must_ be krile’s, then, since the woman would very likely skin a person alive for damaging anything she spent so much gil on.

“and i’m over a century your senior, which makes you an _infant._ ” tiamat snaps right back at g’raha, causing him to do a double-take in shock. “sweet fucking hydaelyn,” she presses on in a higher pitched voice bordering on desperation while he stands shellshocked. “did you think i was a thousandfold doctor at the age of _thirty_?”

the student-infant doesn’t say anything for a very awkward few seconds, wherein tiamat debates the merits of closing the door in his face while the gears in his brain whirl about to the point of distraction. that would be rude, though, and krile would absolutely give her shit for it later. there was something about the wrath of lalafells that she saw memes about online, and they were all too accurate to be mere coincidence.

with a temporary break in character, g’raha bites his lip and looks to the side, his brows furrowing in what tiamat assumes to be worry for his person and grades. just as quickly, however, he reclaims every bit of lost courage and meets her gaze, even if he struggles against the head or so of height she has on him. a new flame of determination burns fiercely in those blue-green eyes of his and tiamat feels her will to live falter. he looks as though he’s ready to argue a questionable political point or theory that nobody asked about, while all trapped in the same room as him. what he says next will make or break his case and he clearly knows it and is pulling out all the stops.

“i’ll buy you coffee.” he tells her. _oh thank fuck._

“i thought you were broke?” tiamat asks anyway, narrowing her eyes in suspicion at the offer. it was easy to make promises and she had zero intention of losing out on caffeine because she trusted the words of a mere acquaintance. 

g’raha lifts his chin in some sort of snotty defiance which only serves to make him more precious rather than the bold and daring he was likely aiming for. _damn_ him!

“i’ll be more broke if i don’t pass these exams and have to retake stuff.” his expression becomes pleading, both ears pressing back and down. “please help me study this material. i’ll beg if i have to. on my hands and knees, right here.” _oh gods he means it._

“ _don’t_!” tiamat warns sharply right as g’raha starts to look around for places to set his mass of school supplies and commence humiliating himself. “for fuck’s sake. fine. as a favor since you hunted me down specifically like an idiot. _fine_. just...” she opens the door the rest of the way and steps back into her house, gesturing vaguely into its interior. “don’t dig into my stashes or anything.”

g’raha beams, strolling inside, and with a groan tiamat thumps the back of her head against the door. being a suspended plane of wood, it ricochets into the wall and back with a violent amount of rattling noise.

“you won’t regret this! i swear!” he carefully places the stacks of books on her couch as if they’re the most fragile of collectable items (which, as krile’s things, they are) and tiamat boggles at how deeply they sink into the cushions. dude is _jacked._

“rest assured i live in a constant state of regret. i won’t know the difference.” resigning herself, she closes the front door with a definitive click of the lock, and drags her feet into the main room where g’raha looks way too at home for having all but invaded on her space. something about miqo’te looking cozy no matter where they are.

g’raha laughs, not knowing she was being serious, and she sighs.

“how do you even keep going for a century?” g’raha asks with a pencil hanging out of his mouth. “working in such a stressful field, i mean. sounds like it’d be pretty awful to do for so long, since you’d be working so much and have to keep up on all the latest information...”

“drugs,” tiamat answers easily. she hears the muffled clatter of a pencil hitting paper. “i do drugs.”

g’raha’s silent as he watches her, and it’s a coin flip on if he’s waiting for her to say “just kidding,” which she has no plans of doing since she’s telling the truth, or if he’s being a standard goody goody proper student and judging her. wouldn’t be the first time someone did.

“... what kind?” he inquiries with a squint instead, his tone one of hesitant curiosity. it’s such a dumb face and question coming from such a dumb face that tiamat is successfully caught off-guard, and she barks out a laugh. g’raha startles and his tail poofs to its maximum possible size, which only makes her laugh even more, until her eyes are filled with tears.

“listen kid,” she manages to say once her fit settles into chuckles, “i like you, but you’re out of your damn mind if you think i’m sharing my stash with you. stick with weed for now and get back to me in a few decades.”

“i’ll be dead by then! or really, _really_ old!” he whines. tiamat ignores him and scrolls through a series of cat videos on her tomephone.

“i know what i said.”


	45. dragonkin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sometimes ur a dragon and that's ok
> 
> gen

the first time lyna learns about dragons is from the stories she’s told, herself still quite young and so very wide-eyed at every myth and prose the exarch spins for her.

she is special, she knows early on, because she gets him all to herself while the other orphaned children prefer to stay together in their foster home. the exarch has grown quickly attached to her, and she to him, and lyna is delighted by the privilege of hearing tales he would not share with others, as well as being one of few to see the mystel underneath the cowl.

her new guardian tells her of wondrous lands, of heroes and villains, of tragedies and hope. lyna listens greedily as he details the triumphs of the grand hero, stronger and braver than anyone else, and who stood at the forefront of conflict and swept all into the tide of her influence with her compassionate, kind heart alone. lyna is too young to understand what the glimmer in the exarch’s eyes as he regales these stories means, but she is also the perfect age to be utterly astounded at the magnificent creatures he describes to her. they sound almost real, almost tangible and within her grasp.

a race unlike any other, arriving from even farther than the farthest of worlds. intelligent and powerful, immortal to an extent, and able to wield the power of the elements in their very breath. they soared on grand wings, covered great lengths on clawed feet, and came in countless varieties while all still sharing the blood of a single family.

lyna tries her best to imagine what one would look like, and the exarch helpfully assists her by pointing out the similarities between a member of dragonkin and lakeland’s own reptilian glider. young as she is, lyna doesn’t think to ask how he would know what a dragon looks like well enough to point that out.

—

the first time lyna sees a dragon is no more than a glimpse; its inky black shape contrasting against a blanket of overcast skies. judging from its size even at an impressive distance, she is able to discern that the creature is stunningly massive, far bigger than any glider she’s ever seen. its body is long, four wings spanning out and tilting along with its movements as it surges across the sky. it leaves just as soon as she sees it, and lyna is at a loss for words.

the skies shake with the boom of thunder, but no storm ever arrives.

—

lyna becomes one of very, very few to ever see a dragon in her lifetime. she soon then joins the ranks of even lesser numbers, consisting of only her guardian and his guests– all of whom are _acquainted_ with a dragon.

a powerful sin eater has wandered too close to the threshold dividing the greatwood and lakeland. as guard-captain, it’s lyna’s foremost duty to rally the crystarium’s every defense for the incoming attack, and it’s a grueling one. the eater in question has already decimated a trained sect of hunters who pursued it through the forest, and the single survivor of that assault was only able to live long enough to warn the nearest military outpost, before succumbing to their wounds.

rather than adding to their dwindling number, this monster opted to slaughter people en mass, and it’s this mercilessness that causes lyna the most concern. if she slips up, her men will die. the fact is that some will die _regardless_ , no matter their best efforts to the contrary, if the strength of the sin eater is to be believed. she finds herself once more at a sobering mental stalemate: refusing to back down in the face of danger but also refusing to accept the inevitable casualties. 

they’ve come _so far_ in their battle to protect their home and have accomplished _so_ much, the night sky a constant presence once again, but having to nevertheless estimate the number of personal losses to properly coordinate their defense is a task she despises above all else.

at no point does lyna consider that she will not need to do such a thing, or that the losses would be kept to an absolute minimum of _none._

the skies buckle under the crash of thunder– but there is not a single cloud in sight and the midday sun beams uninhibited. the harrowing sound repeats once more with increasing volume, and its intensity causes lyna’s skin to hum and her fur to prickle. she looks to her men and finds them in similar states of distress as she, standing stock still and gazing fearful at the skies.

anticipating the worst or no, nothing could prepare any of them for the sight of an impossibly large, dark shape barreling in the direction of their outpost.

the dragon roars a third time as though announcing its arrival, swooping low enough for its wingtips to brush the topmost leaves of trees scattered along its path. once it has closed in to an acceptable distance, all four of its narrow wings flare open to slow its descent, and the resulting blast of wind nearly sends her off clear off her feet before she has a chance to shout.

the dragon lands nearby the outpost’s entrance with one last flutter of its wings, and without any further fanfare. lyna watches shocked beyond words and reason alike as the beast lowers its head unprompted, revealing the crystal exarch– who dismounts as though he were riding an amaro and not a giant terrifying creature that shouldn’t exist. he runs a hand across the ridge of the dragon’s cheek, and it rumbles and bumps him a little with its snout.

predictably, she and everyone else in the vicinity continue to stare slack-jawed for a solid few seconds, even when the exarch smiles one of his secret smiles and raises a hand in greeting. behind him, the dragon rises to its full height, shaking its long body and wings, and then settles onto its belly in near cat-like posture. lyna’s guardian and lord makes his way briskly over to her while she rapidly looks between him and his new companion, both paranoid and confused.

“guard-captain,” the exarch says far too cheerfully, still smiling. after pausing to collect her harried thoughts, lyna gives him the best withering stare she can physically manage. the dragon huffs out a strange noise and she swears it’s some kind of _laugh_.

“my lord,” lyna returns in a measured tone that poorly covers her concern. surely he sees her stress in the uncomfortable way she is able to greet him, all while they sit under the eyes of a massive and intelligent predator. “while i have always trusted your judgment and will continue to do so, do not think that you’ll be able to evade the questions i will be saving for when this battle is over.”

the exarch laughs a little, ducking his head, and lyna almost sputters at the warm honesty of it. she’s still adjusting to his newly discovered joy and the energy with which he tackles each day since the total demise of the lightwardens, and while she treasures the change in his attitude, truly, this is… different. she can tell, having grown up at his side and learned his every tell due to his long-time habit of isolation and covering his tracks.

the exarch is visibly _thrilled_ at the current state of affairs, and lyna is certain it has everything to do with riding in on a dragon; the legendary beings she understands now to have been real the entire time, just as most of his cherished stories had been.

“you’ll not be waiting long, then, as this particular fight shall be left to one more suited for it.” the exarch explains, adjusting his wind-messed robes with halfhearted care.

lyna blinks dumbly in surprise at the news, and a painful knot of despair in her chest gradually begins to loosen. she hadn’t expected reinforcements, and can’t imagine who else but he and the warrior of darkness possessing the strength to take on such an opponent… but if it would spare her guard, spare their _lives_ , then–

realization doesn’t so much as find her as slam into her all at once, and lyna’s attention snaps over fully to the dragon. it regards her far too gently for all its sharp edges, its layers of dark red and gray scales and piercing crimson eyes. sitting so innocently and docile at the crystal exarch’s back is this beast of nightmares’ make, its paws large enough to smash her into bits and wicked talons long enough to rend even a fully grown amaro with ease.

its angular jaws part slightly and expose rows of dagger-like teeth, which glint pale against the light of the sun. a cold sweat washes over lyna despite her best efforts to retain her composure while in the company of the exarch, who is by all accounts wholly relaxed.

 **“i’ll take over from here,”** the dragon says to her politely in a feminine voice that lyna recognizes instantly. **“you need not worry yourselves, just stay safe.”  
**

lyna very nearly breaks character to point and shout _of course it has to do with her i knew it, i knew it, it’s always her when these ridiculous things happen,_ but fortunately her struggling sense of professionalism wins the day, and she says nothing.

“do not be reckless,” the exarch calls over his shoulder to tiamat, who rises and shakes herself again in anxious anticipation and paws at the dirt. lyna pretends to not see the massive gouges her claws leave. “and please refrain yourself from terrorizing the locals.”

 **“it was one time!”** she counters with a snort, baring her teeth in a mock show of aggression that, were she anyone or anything else, would send fully grown soldiers sprinting to the hills. **“and it was an accident! i got a little carried away.”**

the small sigh that lyna hears from the exarch suggests that this is a frequent enough occurrence to justify the warning, and she rethinks any and all reports about strange sightings by her guardsmen since the warrior of darkness first arrived.

“then i would ask you to be even _more_ cautious.”

the dragon grumbles as she spreads her wings. **“i promise i will be careful, provided you do the same until i return. i don’t want anymore heroes.”  
**

the exarch hesitates responding just long enough for tiamat to leap bodily into the air, taking to the skies with heavy beats of her four wings. she sails overhead and in the direction of the greatwood, thunder rattling in her throat.

the most lyna can do is act as a more or less useless audience, even though what she _should_ be doing is withdrawing the entirety of her guard to prevent them from being caught up in collateral. after the widespread panic caused by this sin eater’s threat, and subsequent scramble to put their very lives on the line to defend their home from its reach… this all seems so… 

“no more heroes.” she hears the exarch say quietly after the dust has settled. there’s a somber sentiment in the whisper of his voice, and lyna thinks it may be only truly understood by the exarch and the warrior themselves. much like the plentiful secrets they continued to keep close, she is not privy to the context or what horrible truths they bear.

… lyna decides to save this one particular question of hers indefinitely. perhaps there will be a time and a place where she can inquire deeper into her guardian’s past, and he will be able to answer more openly, but for now she is content with the knowledge of heroes and dragons… and the warrior of darkness’s ability to somehow be both.


	46. pvp enabled area

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> training day
> 
> humor

tiamat bounces steadily on her paw-like feet, her tail and ears moving along with the motion, and it takes alisaie every onze of willpower and also biting hard on her lower lip to not burst into giggles at the sight. warrior of light or grown woman or no, she was told a nursery rhyme quite like this plentiful times as a child… bunny rabbit, bunny rabbit–

“i will be going at you until you all give in,” tiamat announces once she ceases her hopping and begins to pivot in deep stretches at the waist. 

on a hunch, alphinaud glances over at his sister and catches her shamelessly staring at the movement of their dear friend and compatriot’s stomach muscles with every turn. he doesn’t know what he expected and tries to forget what he saw instantly, focusing his attention on his carbuncle for mental benediction.

“i won’t hold back, so none of you better hold back either. i’m already giving you a pretty solid advantage over me since i’m basically naked.”

from the side and beneath a shaded tree, cozy as one can get when anticipating a grand spectacle of friendly fire, g’raha tia mutters: “please don’t say it like that.”

tiamat shouts back an “i am, though!” while y’shtola cocks a fine brow in his direction. “am i to assume the exarch will not be joining us?” both of his ears perk to attention and he gives the scion an unidentifiable look from over his journal. not that she would be able to see his expression to begin with, but the sentiment is there and that’s well and good enough for him.

“he’s here to watch,” tiamat says simply while rolling her good shoulder.

y’shtola hums a little to herself in thought, but decides to play nice with her fellow miqo’te, who by all accounts is merely _feigning_ composure under her scrutiny. he’s likely teased more than enough by tiamat on a regular basis, and is now anticipating it at all times. how cruel of her it would be to waltz right into his expectations.

“he’s also here to take notes on a _certain someone_ , apparently,” alisaie chimes in with a sly grin that only grows wider when g’raha abashedly ducks his head just enough to sever eye contact.

“not to worry, alisaie, i’ve been keeping tabs on _your_ progress as well and giving x’rhun an update whenever we meet up.” tiamat’s eyes gleam. “and don’t think i haven’t noticed you staring at me. you could use some work on your subtlety.” 

alisaie’s eyes blow wide, heat rapidly staining her cheeks the most luminescent of reds. alphinaud sputters so hard he hacks up several laughing coughs, bent over in a fit and clutching uselessly at his chest.

“as i was saying! i’m unarmed and un-armored, but don’t think that will make it any easier for you to withstand me.” tiamat, satisfied with her stretches, assumes a decidedly military-like pose teeming with authority. that said, it lacks a significant amount of its power while used by a woman dressed in barely more than a fitted tank and shorts. “when you’re ready to give up, go onto a knee. i’ll leave you alone, then.”

urianger and alphinaud both sink to their knees with eerie synchronization, the latter of whom is still struggling to remember how to breathe, his eyes watering. thancred takes one look at urianger offering himself to the warrior of light’s mercy for the third time in the last some odd weeks, and slaps a hand over his face hard enough to make an audible noise, even with his glove.

tiamat stares blankly at the two for an uncomfortable amount of time. “you will not be getting out of this exercise,” she says humorlessly, “though your attempt is certainly noted.”

urianger manages to look like a kicked puppy even with all his facial hair. alphinaud always looks like one, so there’s nothing further of consequence to note in that regard. both slowly rise to their feet and accept their fate.

“u-um,” ryne pipes up after watching these various interactions with hardly an inkling of what she’s supposed to understand. “i know you’re very strong, you are! but– are you sure this is fair?” she gestures a little with her twin daggers, unsure if it would be in any way appropriate to point them at a cherished friend, even if she explicitly asks for it. “i don’t want you to get hurt…”

tiamat smiles kindly. “you won’t hurt me, so don’t worry about that.” ryne bites her lip and looks down at her feet, still worrying but nevertheless tentatively appeased by her answer. what a wonderful child.

“alright, with ryne being the only exception, i’m out of patience for you lot so we will begin in ten seconds. finish your preparations before i put you in the ground.” tiamat continues to stand entirely too casually for someone threatening physical violence, a hand loosely sitting at her hip.

“just like that?” alisaie squawks, entirely missing how her brother tears away at a dead sprint in the opposite direction, his carbuncle trotting merrily at his heels and so ignorant of its master’s plight. “ten seconds is _hardly_ –”

“five seconds.”

“wait _just a godsdamn_ –”

tiamat shoulder-checks thancred, jamming her elbow into his gut and disarming him in one fluid movement, twisting his arms and snatching his weapon away. she sends him sprawling hard into the grass with one solid kick not a second later.

“wh– why,” thancred wheezes, in a daze, and with the weight of one of her adorable and very pointy hind claws sitting gently at his sternum. “do y- you always… go for me– _first_?”

“honestly?” tiamat begins to laugh, tossing his gunblade from one hand to the other before jamming it into the dirt within arm’s reach of him, for when he’s figured out how to move again. “because i find it hilarious.”

she looks upward from her fallen quarry and meets alisaie’s eyes. the girl has yet to move from her starting position, and it takes another second and even harder staring on tiamat’s part for alisaie to realize her fatal mistake. she gasps a panicked inhale, leaping backwards and bringing up her rapier. tragically, this does nothing to save her from the barely dressed viera, who swiftly closes the distance, her long arms wrapping around alisaie’s waist, and bodily flips her.

“oh, come on!” alisaie shouts indignantly from the ground once she’s released, rolling over onto her stomach and repeatedly stamping her free hand. “how was i supposed to know to run away from the start?!”

for all her troubles, alisaie receives a fond pat atop her messed hair from tiamat, who then moves past her prone form to seek out her next victim.

“you should know to run away because _i_ am your opponent.” she says in a measured tone that alisaie easily translates as to meaning _“there is not a single godsdamn way you can win against me and i want you to know it,”_ which is fair enough. the point of the exercise was not to beat her, but to last long enough to hopefully sate her appetite for destruction. however briefly.

and, most likely, show off to her lover, who contentedly scribbles away in his book while the scions fall one at a time and tiamat remains wholly unscathed as she goes.

it only occurs to alisaie, after she watches tiamat suplex urianger in a feat of downright disturbing strength and flexibility, that the exarch isn’t participating because he would actually _win_.


	47. world's worst monster hunter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> based on my hc that the rathalos mount is a baby rathalos that the wol acquired during the crossover event
> 
> gen, humor

“i have this completely under control,” tiamat lies between several exhausted and back to back wheezes, gazing wearily up at the exarch through her messed hair. she clings to the side of her mount’s head with enough force to strain her knuckles pale, and g’raha anticipates the moment wherein the beast will toss her loose, its bulky form wiggling incessantly beneath her iron grip.

“i’m beginning to have my suspicions that you may not,” g’raha says with mixed parts exasperation and fondness. tiamat shouts at the creature– a dragon? some sort of wyvern– repeatedly with increasing volume and attempts to wrangle it back under her control, with little success.

“he’s just a–” she tries to explain through clenched teeth, but is interrupted by the wyvern sweeping its head and physically flinging her aside with a startled yelp. g’raha lunges for her on reflex and is just barely able to catch her in time, though the full weight of her slamming into him knocks the air clear out his lungs and almost sends them both sprawling across the ground.

“rathalos, _no_!” tiamat shrieks while awkwardly tangled around g’raha, who quickly attempts to help her back to her feet while in a breathless daze. tiamat darts away from him the moment she has enough leverage against the stone beneath her to do so, leaving g’raha to gasp and cough in her absence.

rathalos, which g’raha assumes is the wyvern in question, hops around the launch with unrestrained excitement that does not suit its fairly massive and intimidating stature. it rapidly flaps its wings and shakes its body before bouncing away from tiamat the moment she closes in on it.

it behaves… not unlike that of a child, g’raha realizes as he watches the two circle each other fruitlessly, and with that he begins to understand the situation far better.

tiamat stands broadly, her arms wide to each side as though she could possibly stop rathalos’ charge with her body alone. g’raha would be more amused at the sight of his warrior attempting to discipline such a creature, were there not so many complaints and outright terrified crystarium residents having long since fled the scene. there would be another talk between them later.

finally able to reach her monstrous charge, tiamat forces rathalos’ head back down while it playfully growls and nips at her. by this point she is significantly less patient and brute strengths through rathalos’ shenanigans enough for it to begin to settle, reluctantly obedient.

tiamat heaves a massive inhale and nearly collapses onto the wyvern, struggling to hold herself up against its flank with both arms. it appears to be pleased as anything and impatiently jitters and drags its tail from side to side, making the most uncomfortable scraping sound g’raha has ever heard.

“he’s just a baby!” she finally says while tiredly patting a hand against rathalos’ neck. it twists its broad head and once more makes a valiant effort to bite at her with a goofy chattering noise that has no business coming from a maw filled with so many razor teeth. “normally when he g- gets like this i just… be a dragon and pin him down. since i’m not actually his parent o-or owner. works well enough to keep him from… breaking everything.” she vaguely motions with her free hand.

g’raha risks stepping closer, and is satisfied enough when rathalos merely glances in his direction with mild interest, before resuming its wiggles and delighted chirruping at tiamat, who is evidently far more worthy of its attention. a reasonable enough assumption.

“i think i fought his father before, actually, and uh– killed him. i’m _not_ looking forward to when he gets that big, gods.” having given up on standing, tiamat fully slumps over rathalos’ neck and allows herself to go limp. the tips of her boots scrape across paved stone with every minor movement the wyvern makes in protest to her position, and g’raha can’t help but laugh a little.

“a tamer of monsters, are we?” g’raha teases, closing the distance and finally able to appraise the difference of size between himself and this young wyvern tiamat’s taken under her wing… so to speak. imagining physically fighting rathalos, much less its possible parent, causes him retroactive sympathy pains.

he watches the two briefly– how tiamat continues to dangle and how rathalos continues to twist around trying to reach her. it does eventually calm, and with a thoughtful hum on his part, g’raha slowly moves to rest a hand on rathalos’ snout. it makes an interesting snuffling noise against his palm and pulls its lips back to bare teeth, but otherwise does little else.

“hunter,” tiamat corrects, wholly unaware of the exarch risking his limbs. “it’s a long but anticlimactic story. there was a… cat thing. i think he had a shovel? i was tossed around and hit my head a lot, i can say that much.”

the juvenile rathalos noses at g’rahas robes and tries to bite him as well, only succeeding at snagging its sharp teeth on decorative cloth. it seems incredibly offended by this and hisses as though the clothing is personally responsible, causing tiamat to smack its shell-like, ragged, scales in a reprimand.

“you amaze me every day, my friend.” g’raha praises with a smirk while freeing the poor gigantic predator from the hazards of his robe. “but i may resort to begging if you continue to cause scenes within the crystarium. ‘tis not easy to explain such events to anyone not already well-acquainted with your adventures.”

tiamat whines loudly. “if i could figure out why these things keep happening to me, i would be the first one to stop them!” she raises her head to shoot g’raha a pained look. “do you have _any_ idea how rathalos even got to the first to begin with?!”

g’raha blinks dumbly. “that was going to be my next question.”

she groans and drops her head back against rathalos’ hide with a definitive thump.

sharp teeth gently close around g’raha’s crystalline wrist, and he startles and yanks his hand back, his ears low and tail fluffed with instinctive terror. rathalos simply stares at him, then huffs petulantly and turns to stalk back across the launch with the warrior of light in tow.

on second thought, g’raha determines while the wyvern once again becomes agitated by tiamat’s presence and spins around in place trying to dislodge her, attempting to explain the situations she often found herself in may prove to be a fool’s errand.


	48. ehsk lohs (love madness)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (this made me decide to up the rating)
> 
> tw: depictions of ptsd and resulting mental health issues including but not strictly limited to night terrors, dissociation/depersonalization, self-harm, and physical violence. body horror, general horror. caution is strongly advised.
> 
> horror, angst.

tiamat is well aware of the abnormal frequency of her nightmares, and even moreso is she about the consistently violent nature they possess. and to say they are “violent” in its own definition is barely scratching the surface, she thinks, because she’s _used_ to every form of bloodshed and death imaginable from practical application that would _all_ fit the criteria. but these dreams in question that shake her, the violence they inflict upon her, are far too _intimate_ for a mere summarization. what they lack in the conventional horrors of the battlefields she frequents, they instead weave insidiously into her very being, resting beneath her breast for the right trigger to pierce into the hollowed shell of her self.

these are the nightmares that succeed in breaking her where all others have failed, and they do so with the gentleness of a lover.

the descent is simple, as sleep often is: tiamat dreams of people she knows. loves. she dreams of her own pain and its causes, and she dreams of that pitch black tide ever whispering against her weakened sense of morality. it guides her hand through the chaos and leads her into a wild dance to the beat of her racing, damaged heart. the deeper into her subconscious she waltzes along this thread of madness, the less of herself she recognizes. the more of herself she tries to forget.

she is with the person she loves, and she is happy enough to burst. so lost in the euphoria of this moment is she, that she doesn’t notice when her hands begin to idly, mindlessly, wander up his chest. the backs of her claws drift across glittering crystal in a slow, achingly tender caress and her fingers reach– closing firmly around his neck. she is grinning with ecstasy at the feeling of his quickened pulse drumming beneath her fingers; both blood and aether and beautiful beyond compare, held within her hands and coveted deeply like a precious gift. she loves, loves, _loves,_ and forgets, and her waking screams do nothing to drown out the violent cracking and snapping of fractured crystal against her palms.

tiamat stumbles out of bed and retches onto the floor several fulms away– where her knees finally give out in her distress. she is deathly afraid of the blue all around her and of the monster wearing her skin, and she wants it _gone_ , wants dig her bestial claws into meat and bone and _tear_ it out of her– destroy the source of her fear and kill this _thing_ which endlessly fuels the torment.

and it’s then, with a mechanical hand pressing hard with intent against her own airway, that the soft sounds of a voice, _his_ voice– alive and brilliant, reach her through the blistering haze. tiamat hesitates and loosens her grip– feels the pained breath in her chest as her own once again, and the sensation is enough to momentarily pull her back from the riptide and ground her, if only for long enough for her to remember.

she climbs, _crawls_ , out of that abyss with all the speed and grace of a crippled animal, but is nevertheless thoughtlessly cooperative as she is guided carefully back to awareness by the pressure of warm hands around hers. she trembles from a weakness too poignant to name while the adrenaline streaking through her muscles gradually ebbs away. tiamat feels exhaustion leech into her marrow as the desperate need to fight leaves her, her chest spilled out and emptied as a tipped ewer, and her quieting mind fuzzy. she blearily listens to the nonsense information g’raha offers her; meaningless words she doesn’t understand but still uses as an anchor– a northern star– while she finds her way back to him, tar nipping at her heels all the while.

eventually the blue stops hurting, and tiamat feels the comforting weight of crystal intertwined with her own clean, bloodless hand. she stares at their laced fingers, unable to determine why the sight transfixes her so. g’raha brings her closer with his spoken hand resting at the nape of her neck, and she exhales into his collarbone and allows her stinging eyes to slip shut. the steady thrumming of his purr lulls her into a dreamless sleep.


End file.
